


Daffodils and dead leaves

by Kaiyo_no_Hime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Jaskier suffers for the fandom, M/M, Paper doll trope, Soul Bond, Tragedy, happy endings are a fairy tale that bards sing, minor self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 50,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22664773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyo_no_Hime/pseuds/Kaiyo_no_Hime
Summary: Jaskier is from a special family with a special magical ability.  They can be bound to another and share their life through the other's pain.  And, should the one they are bound to ever die, they die so that the other can live.Jaskier is bound the moment he takes his first breath in life.  Bound to someone he doesn't know, that he is told is special and needs to live because destiny needs them.So he does what anyone would do, and runs away from home to try and meet this person after suffering their agony every moment of his life, and see what's so important about them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 980
Kudos: 1937
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Нарциссы и мертвые листья](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25438345) by [Black_Malachite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Malachite/pseuds/Black_Malachite)



Take a breath in, and give a breath back. 

Take a breath in, and give a breath back.

Take a breath in, and give a breath back.

Jaskier repeated the mantra to himself as he lay on the flea ridden straw mattress of the inn. 

Take a breath in, and give a breath back.

He could feel the pain radiating from his chest. A hard blow, then. Was it boots? Was it just a single person? Was it something worse?

Take a breath in, and give a breath back.

His breath rattled in his lungs as he felt the tearing flesh peel away from his right arm. He wanted to scream, to curl up and beg for forgiveness. How could he let his other suffer through this? Every agony pierced him, unthreading him and letting his mind fall to shattered glass with every blow.

He could only imagine what his other must truly be suffering if these were but the echoes that rippled over his body. It was night that he feared worst, it was night that the pain came most often. The darkness brought not horror, but suffering.

He gasped as his entire left side screamed, and tried to concentrate on his mantra.

Take a breath in, and give a breath back.

Take his breath, he sobbed at his other, take his breath, and another, and another, and all the breath that Jaskier had to his lungs. Take it all, take it forever. They deserved every moment, every chance.

Because, whoever they were, wherever they were, they needed it. Every precious breath their lungs couldn’t grasp. Every time they were struck again, and again, and again. Jaskier would breath for them. Live for them.

Be more for them. Anything. 

If only to make the suffering stop.

A moment passed. And then another. And then another. Jaskier sighed shakily as the pain was there, a mere throbbing of injury, and not fresh blood. The beating was over. His other had survived another night.

But, whatever happened, the mantra remained true.

Take a breath in, and give a breath back.

* * *

Jaskier’s fate had been sealed the instant he drew his first breath. His family, nobles of a nearly barren land, held little but their titles and the clothes on their back.

And a family magic that was traded and sold to select bidders for hefty prices. Enough to keep their dreary lands their own, isolated and ignored by kingdoms as they rose and fell. And enough to keep them isolated as whispers spread of unnatural family practices.

Jaskier could remember hearing the tales when he was a child. They were bred with monsters. They sacrificed their children to cannibalistic cults. They bred with their own until they were no longer human themselves.

None of it true, of course. They were poor, but alive. There were drowners in the local stream. 

He watched his mother stare at a wall of dolls and sob.

“There you are, my little Dandelion,” his mother said, picking him up and holding him close on the morning of his fifth birthday.

The little doll at the very end, with his cornflower blue eyes and a mop of auburn hair, sat staring glassily at the window. He had seen that doll every day for his entire life, and he wondered how he had never realized that it was _him_. 

“Who are the other dolls,” Jaskier asked curiously. 

He had faint memories of older children, but he couldn’t connect them with more than warm smiles and sad laughter.

They couldn’t have been his mother. He never remembered his mother being happy in all his life.

“Your bothers and sisters,” his mother explained, taking the ten dolls down, cradling them lovingly in her arms before setting them down in front of the curious Jaskier.

Jaskier frowned, looking as the seven boys and three girls. He only had one brother, he knew. An older brother, away at a university. He didn’t remember him, but his father talked about him. About how proud of him he was. Of how he was making the family proud.

His father never talked to him, or about him. Even when he picked flowers from the thin stream that flowed near their little keep. 

Jaskier was sure he had never seen his father look at him.

“Are they away at university too, like Mikel,” Jaskier asked, “When will they come back?”

Jaskier’s mother let out a broken sob, and pulled Jaskier into her arms, rocking with him on the cold stones, surrounded by little dolls. Jaskier was used to her crying fits, and simply curled up and let her cuddle him like an infant.

He loved to be held by his mother, even if she was always sad when she did it.

“Our family is very important,” she said, and Jaskier nodded.

His father always talked about how important the family was. Even if they never did anything but watch the seasons change, and nothing grew beyond the little vegetable garden.

“The family has a special magic,” she continued, and Jaskier’s ears perked up.

This was new! He had never heard of them having a special magic before! Was that why they were so important? Is that why everyone in the small town called them names and spat? Were they jealous?

“Our souls can be bound to another, and we can take their fate on as our own.”

“Take their fate,” Jaskier asked with a frown. 

“When we are bound, we feel their pain. We hold it, and we help them. And,” she started crying again, and Jaskier reached up to wipe at her tears.

He didn’t like seeing his mother sad. Their family was important, that should make her happy!

“When they die, we give them our life, and we die in return,” his mother sobbed.

Jaskier knew what death was. Death was never waking up and being cold forever. He had seen death. Animals sometimes died. But he had never seen a human die.

“All your brothers and sisters gave their breaths so others could live.”

“Like heroes in the stories,” Jaskier asked, “The bards always sing about how great they are. Were they great, mama?”

“Yes, my little Dandelion, they were great,” his mother agreed, her voice cracking, “They died, and other kings and queens lived.”

“Will I be great like them too, mama,” Jaskier asked curiously.

He didn’t think to question why his brother Mikel didn’t have a doll.

“Yes, sweetie,” his mother cried, “You were bound to an important man. Destiny needs him to live, so the day you were born we bound you. And one day, you’ll give him back his life.”

Jaskier nodded sagely. 

“It’s his pain you feel, it’s his breath you breathe, it’s his life you give,” his mother explained.

Jaskier knew some of this from his training. He knew how to breathe through the pain, knew the mantra by heart, knew how important it was to keep breathing.

But he didn’t know he was breathing _for_ someone. That made it even more important that he always do it.

“When can I meet him,” Jaskier asked excitedly.

Would his other person come to see him for his birthday!? He had never had someone come to play with him before! It could be like a birthday present. The best birthday present ever!

“Never,” his mother told him, “We must never meet our others. It could confuse their destinies. We breathe for them here, and live for them here, safely.”

Jaskier’s heart broke at that. He wanted to see the world, wanted to meet his other. He didn’t want to stay trapped in a boring stone keep, with market once a month as the excitement. He wanted to be more than just his mother’s little Dandelion.

“Mikel left,” Jaskier pointed out with a pout.

“Mikel doesn’t have an other,” his mother explained, wiping her eyes and looking past Jaskier at the dolls.

Dolls of brothers and sisters he had never met. That had never left the keep.

Jaskier swallowed. He knew what death was.

He had seen the family graveyard. His mother liked laying flowers on ten of the graves.

Ten years later Jaskier would steal one of the two horses from the stable and set off to see the world, wondering who his other was. The one who felt such pain that Jaskier could barely return their breath to them.

But, for today, he was five. And he helped his mother put away the dolls, and wondered about his other as he ate the special little cake his mother baked just for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is what happens when I play Minecraft: my brain reminds me of old Clamp tropes and suddenly I need to write.
> 
> Also, I really suck at playing Minecraft. Lots of falling. Lots of arrows. Why the hell are there underwater zombies with tridents trying to stab me!? Even my damn horse pushed me into lava.
> 
> Roach wouldn't push me into lava. Roach would be better than that.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier _loved_ Oxenfurt. Not just because it wasn’t home, but because it was so much more. An entire civilization twirling around in beautiful colors, the very air singing with life. Because they were alive. Every life in the city was its own, and not anothers.

Even the stinking rot of refuse smelled wonderful because it was free.

Jaskier felt alive in Oxenfurt. No one to remind him to be careful, that his life was precious to another. No constant dour sobbing from his mother, as she watched and waited for him to die like his ten lost siblings. 

His blood was his own. His breath was his own. The steady beating of his heart _was his own_.

And he loved it. Each desperate moment of it was amazing. The hunger pains the crippled his stomach, the heat that left him sweating, the nights that left him freezing.

But still, he took a breath in and gave a breath back. He wanted to meet his other, this great man his mother had told him he was living for.

This man that was not a king, but touched by destiny none the less.

Jaskier threw himself at life in the city, quickly gaining a reputation as a singer, and finding himself with a meager scholarship to the academy. His professors praised his abilities, and Jaskier preened, loving the attention, loving finally being seen.

His breath control was amazing, his professors complimented.

Of course it was, Jaskier thought with a smile, he spent his entire life breathing for someone else.

He kept perfect tempo, his classmates laughed.

Of course, Jaskier thought with a flourish, his heart beat regularly for someone else.

Nothing stopped him from performing!

It never would, Jaskier sang with gritted teeth, he knew how to control the agonies his other lived with.

But his other wasn’t in Oxenfurt. He could almost feel a connection to him, shimmering in the air, sending up a hazy wave even on the coldest winter night. His other was off in the darkness beyond the city, and that’s where Jaskier swore he would find him.

Find him, and judge him. Was the man worthy of the second life he would one day gain? Worthy of the life he had already stolen from Jaskier? 

Worthy of the tears that had streamed down his mother’s face, day after day, until she had flung herself from a window to shatter on the cold earth below?

He hoped so.

So, six years later, with an education, a reputation, and a lute, Jaskier struck out into the world.

No longer was he the hungry little boy who devoured everything with his eyes. 

Now he was a man, who devoured the world whole. Every step was a fresh one, every morning a blessing. One more day to take a breath in, and give it right back.

* * *

Flung food was delicious, Jaskier had come to discover, if only because it was better than starvation. He had forgotten how much hunger seasoned every bite he took if he knew there weren’t enough bites to be had. And, on the faded roads of the world, far from the cheers of Oxenfurt, his songs would sometimes leave him drearily bereft of coin.

Critics were harsh at the academy, but at least the beer flowed free and there was always a friend who would cover a meal or two. But here there was nothing, but his voice, strong and true…

And critics with no coin to spare but a harsh word or two.

He made a face as nibbled his way around the rotten holes of a carrot, and tried to rework his rhyme. No one cared about ballads about traveling bards, and he was rather sick of the classics. He had been advised, by another musician he had shared dinner and a bedroll with, to sing old raunchy songs from home if he truly wanted to take in enough coin to survive.

But he didn’t have raunchy songs from home. He had funeral laments, and hissed curses. And, quite frankly, he’d rather not even think about trying to put his own family history to music. Dead children never paid well.

So he watched, and he learned. He learned how to joke about a fish monger’s daughter, and the baker’s wife, and even wrote a fun little ditty about his own personal experience with the tanner’s sister. He did not mention the part about tumbling very quickly through a forest to get away from her angry brothers, but her remembered her fondly.

And all the while he bit his tongue when knives pierced flesh, and he felt as if he had been sent rolling through half the walls of every town. His other must be insane to be so strong. To be able to crush his own ribs and still draw breath the next day.

His other, he realized, listening to the stories, must hunt monsters. Maybe a knight? The well off only son of some well to do family. Or a treasured bastard son of a king. He couldn’t think of anyone else that could afford the price his family demanded to bind a soul to a living paper doll like himself.

So he continued to trace along the roads, following the faint, bittersweet call of his soul, and traveled toward where the elves had vanished into castles of gold at the edge of the world. Maybe his other was an elf. An elf prince that would never again see a throne. 

Elves certainly received enough abuse that that could explain away a lifetime of pain.

Or a witcher, he grinned to himself as he noticed the brooding white haired man sitting in the darkest corner of the tavern. A witcher covered in scars. A witcher close enough to make his bond scream and flare.

It was the first time he could ever remember that he lost his breath. The witcher, the witcher that cruel stories were told of, this Geralt of Rivia, had made him forget, for just one moment, to take a breath in.

And he never even noticed.

Was the man a cruel butcher, like the stories told? Had he been bound to a monster parading in a man’s skin? It was so hard to tell. He was cold. But he let Jaskier follow him, though he could have done without a fist to his gut, and that was a good mark.

And Jaskier nearly wept when he heard Geralt’s speech.

He wasn’t bound to a man. He was bound to a witcher. And he was good. He offered to sacrifice himself for Jaskier, not knowing that his death would never come while Jaskier still had breath to give him. He lamented for the elves plight, and gave them his coin.

He had been worried, unconsciously, all these years that he had been bound to a cruel monster. Someone was beaten because they deserved it. A murderer or a fiend. But, instead, he had developed respect for the witcher.

And his soul sang a little more clearly.

He wanted to get to know him, to know what brought a smile to his face, what he liked to eat, and why on earth he named his horse Roach. And maybe, just maybe, make the world feel a little bit happier to have him in it. Or, at least, accept him.

He could do that. He was a bard, after all. And what better way to become famous than to make his other famous!

“They’ll cheer for you in every tavern from here to the coast to the castles,” Jaskier smiled, plucking at his lute as he strolled beside Roach.

Geralt just grunted, but Jaskier took that as acceptance.

“The White Wolf, as sung by Jaskier, famous bard of the land!”

Geralt didn’t even acknowledge him with a grunt, but Jaskier knew he didn’t mind. His soul sang to him, sang of winter and coming spring, and all of the wonderful adventures he was about to have.

It also sang of a pulsing headache that he hoped Geralt had treated soon. It was distracting trying to write a famous ballad while shuffling calming breathes to ease the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: la de da, this is fun!
> 
> Geralt: Don't touch Roach.
> 
> Jaskier: my soul is bound to a weirdo. Adventures, wheee!
> 
> Everybody:
> 
> Jaskier: Songs, so many songs!
> 
> Geralt:... fuck.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier strummed his lute mindlessly in front of the fire, leaning back and staring up at the stars. No matter where in the world he found himself, the stars were the same. Shining little wishes that twinkled merry stories of worlds that had drowned in the night sky long before he was born.

He had always wondered about those stories.

“Geralt,” Jaskier asked, still staring up at the stars, “How old are you?”

Geralt’s hand paused, Jaskier could hear the rasp of the sharpening stone still for just a moment before continuing. He had to smile at that, he rarely got a reaction from the stony faced witcher these days. Usually just a grunt.

No wonder he talked to Roach more than he talked to his fated other. Roach was better at carrying a conversation.

“I’ve heard that a witcher can live a thousand years,” he continued, “Did you see the stars born? Were you there when the first men landed on the shores, and the elves glowered down at them from their fading kingdoms?”

It was all a lie, he knew. He had heard that witchers lived longer than humans, but a thousand years was ridiculous, even for his stories. More like they lived to survive a thousand cuts before they finally perished in battle. 

Actually, he paused, that would make a great line in a song. A tortured soul that lived to take the strikes of humanity a thousand times before dying to defend it. He would have to liven it up a little with some battles, but it would work well.

And the more coin he brought it the more inns they could sleep at. And bathe at.

He was beginning to take on the horse tinged scent of onion himself, and he loathed it.

His thumb throbbed briefly, and he sighed.

“There’s some of that herbal paste in Roach’s right saddle bag,” Jaskier said with a sigh.

So much for trying to weave his way through a new ballad tonight. Little knife wounds like that always hurt like a bitch when he tried to play. If it were an audience he would endure, but just Geralt?

Well, it was getting late and his feet were tired. As good a reason to stop as any.

He glanced toward Geralt and saw he was glowering at him.

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re always an ass when you hurt your fingers cleaning your sword. Best to tend to the wound now to it’s not infected tomorrow.”

Geralt stared at him while he rose, and Jaskier continued to ignore him, carefully putting his precious lute back into her case. He couldn’t let his little elven money maker get injured, after all. She was as precious to him as blades were to Geralt.

Minus her rarely hurting him. His fingers had long since grown calluses for the strings.

Geralt returned, smelling faintly of herbal paste, and Jaskier just smiled and nodded. At least now he knew, come morning, his fingers would feel nothing. He was eternally grateful, he couldn’t imagine he would have been able to leave home at all had Geralt healed like a human.

Or lived past his first year, really.

Really, did all witchers take on such insane risks, or was his witcher just a special breed of crazy?

He relaxed, rolling himself in his blanket, and stared sleepily at the fire. The flames continued to dance as Geralt returned to caring for his blades.

“Witchers live a long time,” Geralt said as Jaskier blinked at looked up at him.

“None have lived for a thousand years.”

“But you can,” Jaskier yawned, “I’ll breathe so you can.”

Geralt just shook his head, and Jaskier closed his eyes. But it was true, he would give every breath to Geralt so he could live a thousand years and longer. After months on the road together, he had come to known the stubborn man.

He was rough, and crude, and smelled foul, but he was good. He helped those who couldn’t pay, and refused coin from those who couldn’t afford it. He never raised so much as a fist to defend himself in anger. 

He just needed someone to remind him that he was still worth caring for, was all.

And Jaskier would do just that. 

Although he wondered what would happen if he died before the witcher. He had never read of a single case of one of the family dying before their other of natural causes. He didn’t know how the soul bond was shaped, or how strong it was. 

He just knew that, when Geralt died, he would use his last precious breath to breathe a new life into him, so he could fulfill that destiny.

Even if that destiny rather seemed to be him being the grumpiest man he had ever met at the moment.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice rumbled, and Jaskier nodded.

He could do that. That was easy.

* * *

Jaskier stared up at horror at the giant kikimore that loomed over him. He had heard tales, many tales, but had never actually thought he would see one. And, now that he was here, he rather regretted several paces of the past few minutes that had led him here in the first place.

Mainly him rolling out from under his blanket at all.

Because, quite clearly, he was going to put to the test his little question about whether or not Geralt would be affected by his natural death.

A leg, was that a leg!?, crashed down as he rolled to the side, slipping in the mud and trying to back away.

“Geralt,” he shouted, loudly, and continued to slip in watery mud as the creature snapped legs down where he had just been.

He needed to learn how to stab things, he realized. If he had a stabby thing, he could stab this thing.

“Geralt,” he shrieked as the leg pinned him to the swampy ground.

A moment later steel rang and Jaskier watched the pincer that had been about to impale him fall to the ground with a splash. He sighed, and then realized that he was still pinned, and the creature seemed to be furious.

He couldn’t blame it, he would be furious too if his arm had just been chopped off. 

“Move,” Geralt roared, lunging towards the beast.

“I would love to,” Jaskier snapped back, struggling, “But I’m pinned!”

Another leg slammed into Geralt, knocking him off his feet, and Jaskier winced. That had hurt. Geralt’s ribs weren’t broken, but they certainly weren’t feeling comfortable. He was in the way, he needed to move if he couldn’t help the fight.

But the beast seemed to be very certain that it wanted him far more than his white haired friend, and turned its attention back on him.

Another leg slabbed down, and Jaskier coughed as it nicked the edge of his back as he rolled. At least now he wouldn’t have to hide that his ribs hurt, he winced, because this was an injury that was going to stay with him for a while.

“Jaskier,” Geralt roared, and suddenly Jaskier felt the leg that had tried to impale him slam into him, severed and gooey.

He watched as Geralt twisted, and then slammed his sword upward, severing the head, and watched the beast collapse. Geralt was panting, Jaskier could feel his ribs aching and controlled his own breathing. 

Take a breath in, and give a breath back.

Take a breath in, and give a breath back.

“You’re bleeding,” Jaskier said, still pinned to the mud by a corpse.

And he was. Nothing serious, but the stings ached and Jaskier didn’t like the thought of swamp water giving him an infection. He was honestly surprised the witcher had lasted as long as he had given how often he failed to properly care for his own injuries.

He wasn’t going to be surrendering his life just because of a swamp water infection, thank you very much.

“It’s nothing,” Geralt grunted, limping over and helping pull the claw from the mud and Jaskier stared at his torn pants forlornly.

He really needed to stop wearing his performing outfits everywhere. But he couldn’t help it, he loved the soft feel of fine silks. He had grown up with scratchy wool and throbbing wounds, and he refused to go back to that.

Well, to the scratchy wools at least. Nothing seemed to be able to stop Geralt from getting injured.

“What the fuck were you even doing,” Geralt demanded as the two of them finally made it back to camp, dripping in mud water and muck.

Roach huffed, and Jaskier could swear he saw her frown. He didn’t blame him, he wouldn’t want to carry either of them either if he could smell them. Death and mud would never do for a sensitive horse such as herself.

“Getting water,” Jaskier sighed, holding up a pot, “For breakfast.”

Geralt glared at him. Jaskier glared right back.

“The stream was the other way,” Geralt finally snapped.

“Well how the fuck was I supposed to know that!?” Jaskier threw his arms up in frustration.

“I’ll get the water,” Geralt said.

“I was trying to help,” Jaskier insisted mulishly.

“Water is dangerous,” Geralt pointed out, “You need to learn how to fight.”

 _You just need to learn how to breathe. That’s the only thing you need to do._

His mother’s voice drifted through his head. He sighed. She was wrong. But, then again, none of his siblings had ever run away from home. Why would they? They were born to die, they would never need to know how to fight.

Fighting is for those trying to live.

“Well,” Jaskier said, “I’ll get a knife in the next town then.”

Geralt grabbed a knife from his side, Jaskier still didn’t know how many blades the man had but he never seemed to run out, and handed it to him. Jaskier held it, and stared at Geralt dumbly. Was he actually giving him a gift?

“I’ll teach you next we make camp,” Geralt said gruffly, “But no going for water without me.”

Jaskier just nodded, and watched Geralt start packing his bedroll. He looked down at the dagger, plain but sharp and solid. Did Geralt name them? He couldn’t imagine so, outside of Roach the man wasn’t particularly attached to anything.

Daisy, Jaskier decided. It was a happy name for a blade that, hopefully, only saw happy times. Or at least made sure her owner was happy and still alive.

Jaskier attached the blade to his lute case, ignoring Geralt rolling his eyes, and packed up his own blanket and bedroll. Honestly, he hoped the witcher didn’t expect him to wear the damn thing, it clashed with his jacket!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: Geralt, monster! MONSTER!
> 
> Geralt:... again!?
> 
> I can just imagine that Jaskier could find a monster in a macron bakery. It would just be there, waiting for him, in between the blueberry yuzu macrons and the raspberry lime macrons.
> 
> Both of which I'm making this weekend, so the monster had better fuck off because I'm scarier than Geralt when my cookies are threatened!


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt glared at Roach as she nickered again, and went back to watching the rabbit he had spit over the fire. Two weeks without the bard prancing behind them and you would think he had cursed her to haul the foulest creatures the earth had spit out across her back.

Roach whinnied again, and Geralt sighed.

“He rots your teeth and spoils you,” the witcher said, trying to ignore the doe eyes the horse cast toward him.

He didn’t have anything to spoil her with. 

“It’s barely been a fortnight,” Geralt continued, “You can’t possibly miss him. He attracts trouble with his singing, and every monster in the area finds him like a cat in heat.”

Roach looked unimpressed, and Geralt agreed. The excuses sounded weak even to his own ears. Truth be told, he missed the bard as well. The man seemed to miss the common sense that most were born with, but he was good company.

Even though Geralt was still wary of him.

The moment they met his medallion had hummed. A whisper of a hum, but it was there. Jaskier was wrapped in magic of some sort, he knew that. But it certainly wasn’t defensive. And Jaskier certainly wasn’t dangerous, the man couldn’t be trusted to walk into the forest to piss without finding his life in danger half the time.

Geralt snorted at the thought, tossing another stick on the fire.

Autumn was coming, and a chill was in the air. He could survive without the fire, but he found, after traveling for Jaskier since the spring, that he enjoyed the comfort. He liked the warmth, and there was no reason to go without it tonight. 

That damn bard…

Geralt shook his head, glaring at Roach, and tearing a chunk off the rabbit to eat.

“You complain too much,” he informed the horse, “We don’t need another to travel with. Especially not a loud mouthed bard that goes around spinning fantasies about our hunts.”

Roach snorted, and Geralt tore into the rabbit in silent defeat.

He had traveled for nearly a century without company, he didn’t need it now.

But his skin felt tight without the bard near. Like he was less. He knew he wasn’t whole, no witcher was whole, but the bard’s absence left him feeling a little more hollow. He blamed it on adapting to friendly companionship after feeling the cruel bite of stones for so many decades.

It didn’t sit right, there was more to it, but it was enough. Enough to know that the bard would be in a nearby town, and would happily travel with him again.

“I know,” Geralt growled, throwing the last of the rabbit bones in the fire.

He shouldn’t have any sense of where the bard had wandered off to. He shouldn’t be able to know that the bard was close, close enough to meet the next day if he followed the road west. 

But he did. And the tightness lessened as he followed it, and that was enough for him, for now.

He could question Jaskier about it later. And the magic that made his amulet hum pleasantly against his chest.

Just as long as he didn’t have to put up with another laughable sonnet about his true heart belonging to his damn horse.

* * *

Jaskier panted, groaning as nails dug into his back, and thrust forward one last time. The woman beneath him silenced her scream by biting into his shoulder, hard, and Jaskier savored the pain.

“That thing with your fingers,” the woman declared as Jaskier rolled onto his side, smiling, “Was amazing.”

“A good bard has to know how to play his instruments,” Jaskier grinned, nipping at her shoulder.

“You’re incorrigible,” the woman declared, wiping the sweaty streaks of red hair from her face, “But worth your pay.”

“The coin was for the entertainment,” Jaskier reminded her, “This was for pleasure.”

And it was true. He welcomed coin from high class women that knew there might be a few extra perks, but he never accepted coin for those perks. To him it felt too much like ownership. And his soul had already been bought and sold without his say so. He’d rather keep the rest of himself under his own control.

A soul that was bound to a man that had been taking it rather easy the past few days, given the lack of injuries. He was almost impressed, if he didn’t worry him as well. A Geralt without work, or a clear purpose, tended to brood something awful.

“Do you know what would be more pleasurable,” the woman asked, a grin spreading across her face as she cupped his balls, “An encore.”

“That, my lady, would be my plea-”

Footsteps rang down the hallway outside the room, and the woman looked panicked.

“Fuck, my husband,” she hissed, and Jaskier yelped as her hand tightened around his balls, “Quick, out the window!”

Jaskier fell off the bed, eternally grateful for a lifetime of pain making him able to actually think and act instead of falling to the ground weeping, and grabbed his clothes and his lute. He balls throbbed, why did she have to have such long nails!?, and he ran for the window.

Third story window. He swallowed, not looking back, and tossed the clothes down and clamored carefully, his precious lute slung over his back, and bit his tongue. He needed to be more careful! Or find a few beauties with beautiful husbands that would also enjoy a tumble under the sheets. There had been that one couple-

Jaskier’s train of thought cut short as his footing slipped and he nearly fell two stories. He doubted he would die, but his lute certainly would, and he refused to even so much as entertain the thought. His lute, his beautiful Elven lute, was his life. He wouldn’t be able to find as sexy a piece of craft if he tried!

He heard arguing above him, and hurried down, gathering his clothes and dashing off into the darkness. It wouldn’t be the first time he found himself dressing in the dark, and he doubted it would be the last. It was certainly worth it every time, even if he had managed to cuckold half the husbands in the area. And two wives.

Was it still called cuckold if he slept with the husbands and not the wives? He wasn’t sure.

He could ask Geralt, but he doubted he would get much more than a grunt in return. The man was the very example of how to avoid a conversation. He needed a night of excitement, to lift his spirits and show him what he was missing.

Unfortunately that would mean actually hauling him to such a thing, and he doubted he could do that without leather straps and chains.

It would certainly be enjoyable to try, though.

Jaskier smiled to himself, and frowned, curiously. He couldn’t risk the main roads until morning, he would doubtless be recognized just by being the only person on them this time of night, but something was drawing him toward the forest.

He blinked, and then nearly laughed. He was so used to feeling Geralt’s presence, now that he wasn’t actively looking for him, that he sometimes forgot the pull of the bond. Geralt was near. Not fashionably near enough to save him should an angry husband find a need to ride after him as he wandered toward the looming forest, but near enough that he knew the witcher was in said looming forest. Maybe half a nights walk? 

Not too far, either way. He missed his other, his brooding silence, his conversational grunts. Just being near him gave him a soothing calm that the best fuck never could.

He halfway wondered how it would feel to sleep with Geralt. The man was impressively attractive, yes, but it was more than that. Their souls sang when they were near. Jaskier could almost make out the words, when he was listening to the witcher breathe at night as the fire dwindled down to ashes.

Jaskier carefully navigated the forest, cursing silently as he stumbled over roots and through sticker bushes, but always continued forward, drawn to the clear call of his other.

Sex with Geralt, he decided, would be amazing. Not just because of how his soul was tied to the witchers, but because he genuinely liked Geralt. When he wasn’t being a broody ass. But the man had lived through enough hardships that he could be excused for his social ineptitude. People used to throw rocks at him, that would drive anyone to being him!

But no one that Roach approved of could really be anything more than a good person.

Jaskier smiled to himself, composing a little jig about the patience of Roach and how she should be rewarded, when he found himself slammed against a tree, a knife at his throat.

Jaskier coughed, his ribs aching, and stared ahead, still night blind.

“Geralt,” he gasped, finding his tongue as his soul cooed at being so near the white haired man.

Geralt released him with a muttered curse.

Jaskier stepped away from the tree, grateful that his lute had managed to slam into his side instead of his back, and massaged his neck, The man certainly knew how to give a greeting.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Geralt demanded, leading Jaskier back to his campsite and shoving a branch into the dying embers.

“Well, it’s been a while, and I was running low on inspiration, so I decided to pay you a visit,” Jaskier smiled, collapsing next to the fire and feeling for any stones on the ground that needed to be shoved away.

He was exhausted.

“In the forest,” Geralt growled, “Before dawn.”

“Well, there was this lovely woman, but-” Jaskier began before Geralt cut him off.

“Anything could have killed you,” Geralt snapped.

Jaskier shrugged, pulling out his bedroll and laying it out.

Not long till dawn still meant enough time to get a little sleep. 

“You always save me,” Jaskier yawned, laying down, “Though you need to work on your greetings.”

“You need to quit fishing in salty rivers,” Geralt shot back.

Jaskier shrugged, and ignored Geralt’s pained sigh. The other man had led him back to his camp, so he wasn’t too annoyed. He would compose a rousing ballad about him saving a fair maiden from some awful creature, that should make him happy.

Or, at least, the ale that the coins from the ballad bought would. He owned him an ale for waking him up anyway.

Jaskier mumbled his thanks as Geralt threw his blanket over him, and quickly fell into a warm sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Threw him out the window, the window, the second story window! Hi low low hi threw him out the window!
> 
> I would say that writing that got that stuck in my head, but I'd be lying. I teach kindergarten, it was already stuck in my head. Although some of my students have commented that it's a baby shark that's being thrown out the window.
> 
> I approve of my students' logic at times.
> 
> Also, they all wear the most adorable little face masks all the time now. Because I live in Japan and yes, shit is hitting the fan. I need to go to the grocery store, I need and wine and chocolate to survive.


	5. Chapter 5

It doesn’t take long for Geralt to accept a new bounty. Times have been tough, but not enough to wipe monsters off the map. Just make them fiercer near people, or hide them in the dwindling patches of forest where people now rarely go instead of never.

Geralt has taken note of people encroaching on the wilderness this past century. Soon there will be less monsters simply because there is nowhere for them to spring forth from at all. He wonders briefly where that will leave him in the end. 

But it isn’t something that will happen soon. Another few centuries before he honestly needs to worry, he thinks. Less dragons, to be sure, but still enough of the more aggressive, mundane varieties. Drowners, he thinks, will never disappear entirely.

Water likes to lure people to their deaths. 

Jaskier still couldn’t be trusted near it, though he had learned a grumpy lesson or two and accepted his help when he went near it. Clear running streams were the bane of Geralt’s existence at times, the damn bard insisted on bathing and doing laundry in them.

Geralt would never risk his life to simply smell better, but he wasn’t a bard that was obsessed with his looks.

“A wyvern is like a dragon, right,” Jaskier asked, strumming his lute and huddled near the fire.

Autumn had twisted in on itself and was dwindling toward winter. After the wyvern was taken care of he intended to head north, to Kaer Morhen, before the snows set in. It made his heart give an aching beat when he thought of months without the bard nearby, his amulet nearly humming along in tune. But it couldn’t be helped. Kaer Morhen was for witchers, not little silk dressed men that didn’t have enough common sense to tense and turn away when a witcher passed by.

“No breathing fire,” Geralt tells him, grateful that he won’t have to worry about the bard getting too close and setting himself ablaze.

“Why do dragons like virgins,” Jaskier asked suddenly, “Awfully picky for a lizard. They don’t, well, fuck them or anything, do they?”

Geralt blinked at that.

“No,” he says.

He’s tired, but he doesn’t want to fall asleep. This itching in his chest is almost pleasant when the bard is nearby. And he wants to know what’s causing it, because he knows Jaskier is causing it. The man is a walking, talking disaster, and now he’s dragged Geralt into it too.

He wouldn’t put it passed him to have gotten cursed by some angry past lover, and managed to make that go astray as well. Geralt just wished he knew what it was, what it was intended to do, before he tried to make it stop.

Because, on long nights when the bard wasn’t near, it had begun to roil, and he didn’t like that the feeling was becoming stronger. Magic, especially miscast magic, was dangerous. 

“Well, that’s a relief. No one wants to hear a song about a lizard trying to have their way with a maiden fair,” Jaskier joked, “Besides, I wouldn’t know how to rhyme ‘lizard cock’ with anything but-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt snapped.

Jaskier laughed, strumming the lute a few more times before packing it away. It was early yet, the darkness smearing the night out on both ends of the day, but they were both tired. In the morning Geralt would deal with an ornery lizard, and he was sure the bard would have a few more jokes to quip before he pulled some absurd tale about a dragon being bested by a white wolf out of the air.

He had stopped giving the man details because the fool never kept any of them in his damn songs in the first place.

“Geralt,” Jaskier yawned, curling up under his blanket.

“Dammit, sleep bard,” Geralt sighed, feeling like he was chastising a mewling kitten.

“But-”

“No,” Geralt replied, fairly certain he didn’t even want to know the question.

Jaskier muttered angrily under his breath, but Geralt could hear his breathing, his eerily regular breathing, peter out into sleep. 

Geralt sighed, building up the fire so the other man didn’t freeze, and let himself drift into a cautious rest.

* * *

Jaskier sat on a rock next to Roach, guarding the horse as instructed. Or the horse was guarding him, Geralt hadn’t been too clear on the details when he had stormed off with his sword. Jaskier liked to think he was guarding Roach.

But he noticed how the horse was side eyeing him, and he was sure it was the other way around.

Which wasn’t fair at all, as he didn’t get nearly as hurt as the witcher did.

“He would find much more pleasant if he didn’t find a way to be smashed into every boulder in the area,” Jaskier told Roach, wincing as pain shot up his left shoulder.

At least he knew Geralt had found the wyvern. 

Pain echoed up his back, and his head throbbed. Jaskier hissed, letting his lute drop, forgotten, and sprawled out on top of the rock. This was going to be a bad one, he could tell. 

Roach nosed at his hair, and he nodded, his eyes closed.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Jaskier concentrated on his breathing, pain lancing up his hip.

What was the man doing up there!? He was sure the witcher could survive this, he had felt him survive worse, but it was deeply uncomfortable. His right elbow exploded in agony, and Jaskier thought he saw stars.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Distantly, he thought he could hear an angry roar, and then his right shoulder dissolved into pain. Jaskier could feel teeth, and then his left hip went painfully numb.

Oh. He recognized this one; poison. He needed to bolt the witcher with scrap iron to keep him from getting wounded. Didn’t the man have any concern for his safety at all!?

Jaskier continued breathing, feeling muscles strain and skin tear, until finally it stopped. He let out an exhausted pant, patting the worried horse softly on the nose.

“He’s alive,” Jaskier reassured her, “Just a little beat up. Probably needs one of those health potions he has you hauling around.”

Roach whinnied softly, snuffling at his chest.

He laughed, staring up at the cold blue sky. Geralt was alive. 

Another day, another agony. He shifted his weight, and groaned. Geralt felt like he had been picked up and smashed into every rock along the mountain. And his left hip was still numb. He would need to bring some potions to the man, Jaskier was fairly certain he would be able to make it back down the mountain in one piece given the state he was in.

“Which potion do you need for poison, I wonder,” Jaskier gasped, sitting up and wishing the sky would just fall on him and save him from this painful misery.

Roach turned, and Jaskier nodded at the saddlebag.

“All of them would probably be best,” Jaskier said, sinking to his feet and forcing himself to breathe.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Why couldn’t he have been bound to some noble moron that spent all his time eating chocolates instead of fighting monsters? True, he’d probably have been dead before he was ten, but it would be better than wondering if his friend was about to die.

Or worrying that his last breath wouldn’t be enough.

He carefully grabbed a selection of colored vials, and started limping up the path where Geralt had disappeared an hour before. 

Jaskier didn’t like thinking that his last breath wouldn’t be enough, but it was something that could be true. The witcher tended to get himself into situations where escaping one death meant another was already reaching out to pierce his heart. He didn’t want his friend to die because his own life wasn’t enough.

The world needed the man, gruff and smelly as he was.

It certainly didn’t need another bard. Although Geralt certainly needed another friend. The man shouldn’t travel alone, speaking to his horse.

Jaskier stumbled, hissing as his hip began to throb.

Already his right elbow was merely a painful sting. Bless witcher healing, it was certainly the only thing holding Geralt together at this point. And Jaskier too.

“Geralt,” Jaskier called out, limping up the path, careful with the vials he was carrying.

He heard a weary moan and smiled. He would have fun teasing Geralt about putting a stanza in the next song about the bard saving the witcher for once.

“Thought you could use a little pick me up,” Jaskier shouted back, rounding a particularly large boulder and seeing his friend finish hacking the head off the beast.

Geralt stared at him.

“Roach was very insistent. She’s beside herself with worry,” Jaskier laughed, limping over to the witcher and holding out the potions.

“You’re limping,” Geralt pointed out, popping the corks and downing two of them.

Jaskier bit his tongue, breathing carefully, and let the potions freeze and then burn through his veins. They were poison to a human, but to a witcher they were amazing. And amazingly painful. But at least his hip became a dull ache, and he could move his elbow and shoulder again.

“Rock in my shoe,” Jaskier waved it off, “You’re bleeding.”

Geralt just grunted, and Jaskier rolled his eyes as the man picked up the severed head and started walking down the mountain.

“There are bandages with Roach,” Jaskier called after him, following along behind.

They would need more bandages in the next town, he made a mental note, and salve. Geralt may heal unnaturally quick, but the scars still pulled, and ached at times. The winter, when the cold settled and the night never seemed to lift, was the worst.

Not that Geralt would ever admit it, but Jaskier knew. Knew every pin prick and stubbed toe.

But he would give him his last breath still the same.

“So I was thinking,” Jaskier smiled, picking up his lute from where he had dropped it, missing the look that Geralt shot him at the sight of the instrument laying abandoned in the dirt, “We should head south soon. Winter’s picking up and all, and it’s no fun fighting monsters with frozen toes.”

“I’m heading north,” Geralt grunted.

Jaskier’s hands paused as he dusted the body of his lute off before he packed her away.

“Geralt, surely even the monsters curl up in their dens and sleep away the winter, there’s no need for us to go trudging after them,” Jaskier whined.

He hadn’t missed the witcher speaking singularly. He just wanted to deny it. 

He didn’t want their adventures to end just yet. Jaskier wanted to know what was going to kill him when the time came for him to make sure Geralt’s heart never faltered. He was owed at least that much.

“I’m going north,” Geralt repeated, securing the head to Roach’s saddle, “Alone.”

“But Geralt-” Jaskier said, horrified.

“Alone,” Geralt repeated, and Jaskier sighed in defeat.

His witcher was stubborn, there was no getting around that. But the winter rarely held pain, just the throbbing aches of old injuries. So, wherever he was holing up, at least he would be safe. Maybe he had a secret lover that he left lonely all the year save when the winter fell harshly upon the land?

He could certainly write a ballad about that.

“Is she beautiful,” Jaskier asked, trotting alongside Roach, a grin across his face.

“Who,” Geralt asked, stroking Roach’s neck in apology. The wyvern head smelled something awful already.

“Your lady fair, waiting for you to return with the changing of the seasons,” Jaskier replied, “She must have patience to dwindle the beauty of the sunny seasons away waiting for you to return.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, and Jaskier laughed.

No lady fair with golden hair, waiting in a tower for her beast to return then. But it would certainly be fun to tease the man about.

“A last supper before we part ways until the sun warms the land,” Jaskier said, planning his own trip south.

He would already feel every ache that Geralt did, there was no reason he should freeze as well. There were always a few courts in need of a bard or two while the nobles grew sleepy in front of roaring fires. And more than a few that had warm beds besides.

Geralt continued to ignore him as he teased him about his wintery abode up north, and was gone in the morning, leaving Jaskier a quarter of the coin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: cold sucks, let's go sun on some beaches!
> 
> Geralt: ... fuck off bard.
> 
> Jaskier: okay then, see you when it's warmer! Also, here's an allotment of all these great salves so you don't feel any pain at all all winter!
> 
> Roach: Just tell him already, this is getting embarrassing.


	6. Chapter 6

Geralt growls as he marches back into tavern, covered in selkimore guts, and in desperate need of a drink. Or six. The taste lingers on his mouth, and the scent turns even his iron stomach. That damn bard had been the one that had been so joyful about a new hunt.

That damn bard, who made his skin itch and his pendant hum, and still wouldn’t fucking tell him about the magic. He had deflected and produced several weak trinkets, dancing around Geralt with words until he finally gave up. 

He wouldn’t have even left Kaer Morhen so early in the season if he hadn’t felt the strange pull tell him that he had needed to leave, to head south, and to save the stupid bard from getting his balls ripped off by yet another angry husband. Three years he had known the bard, three years they had crossed paths so frequently he wondered if the magic was trying to get him killed and backfired by finding a witcher that didn’t kill people when he could avoid it, and still he didn’t know the answers.

And it was beginning to piss him right off.

“Ale,” Geralt demanded, ignoring whatever it was that Jaskier was babbling on about. 

Something overly flowery. Court gossip, he was sure.

“Fuck off, bard,” he finally snapped, glowering at the innkeeper for handing him a mug of horse piss instead of a proper ale.

Jaskier didn’t take the hint, he never took the hint. He followed him into danger, nearly got himself killed, and never took the damn hint. He had an ale, he wanted a bath. Was it so complicated to leave him in peace so he could at least rest for the night!?

“Food, women, and wine!” Jaskier declared, and Geralt stopped.

He cursed. He was going to agree. He already knew it, whatever stupid plan the bard had dragged him into, he was going to agree, and he was going to regret it. But it would keep the man close, and the fire that snapped up in his veins down to a roiling boil.

It had better be the best damn wine in the whole of fucking Cintra.

* * *

Jaskier hummed excitedly as he danced around Geralt in the bath, carefully selecting the bath salts. Although he knew he would need to use more than a little of that lovely oil in his hair to get it fully clean and silky. The man was a wonder when he cleaned up, it was a shame he didn’t do it more frequently.

Roach didn’t mind had been the excuse he had given, and Jaskier had laughed when Roach had snorted. 

“How many of these lords want to kill you,” Geralt demanded, getting straight to the point.

Jaskier sighed. It was true, he rather loved the court. Or, more accurately, those in the court. Lovely beauties, lovely beds, lovely warmth… and not so lovely marriage partners that frequently made objection to him and his pleasures.

It wasn’t his fault that many of them had bedrooms colder than the wicked north in a blizzard. Hell, he invited most of them to join, but they all seemed even more put out by that. Which was a shame, really, because it would be much easier for him if everyone just learned to have a little joy in their lives.

It certainly helped drive away the ache that built up in his soul whenever he and Geralt were separated for too long these days. The stretching pull that screamed for him to get nearer, and stay with his witcher. He had long since theorized that his soul had become confused because of the bond, and now was trying to stretch back into the witcher.

It wanted to go to Geralt, to be a part of him. To be be whole, with him. Because without him it felt like he was a little broken these days, and even running to the witcher’s side was less and less helpful. 

The worst part was that he didn’t know if he had caused this by traveling with Geralt, or if this would always have happened. None of the family records had any of their paper doll children living past their thirteenth year. And none had ever met their other before at all.

He had made his life, and he was happy with it. Even if he always felt like he was missing half his self on good days, and like he was going through a very angry meat grinder on the bad ones.

“It’s hard to tell,” Jaskier admitted with a sigh, grabbing the oil and sitting behind the witcher to begin to massage it into his hair.

Geralt leaned back and closed his eyes. A sign of approval if Jaskier ever saw one.

“I’ve certainly entertained those of the court on numerous occasion, but sometimes, well, you know how they can get,” Jaskier carefully rinsed warm bath water over the white strands, and began a second round of gentle cleaning.

Silkimore guts were more stubborn than he expected.

“I won’t kill anyone,” Geralt hummed, and Jaskier laughed.

“I wouldn’t expect you too. Just a glower, and some teeth, and most will jump away,” Jaskier massaged Geralt’s head, working his way down to where the muscles in his neck and shoulders ached.

He would have to remember to bind the gash where the silkimore managed to drag a tooth down his back. It stung a little, he had felt worse, but he had to perform tonight and he didn’t want to be distracted. He was a rising star, and it wouldn’t do to back out too quickly because of a little ache.

“Have you ever thought of retiring,” Jaskier asked, working his hands expertly on the witcher’s stiff neck.

“Witcher’s don’t retire,” Geralt muttered, “They die.”

“You’ve never wanted another life,” Jaskier asked cautiously.

A life where he wasn’t constantly on the move, taking dangerous jobs. Always in pain, lonely to the point where his horse was his best friend. 

“I want nothing.”

“Well,” Jaskier sighed, “Maybe someone wants you.”

He was being as obvious as a brick wall, but sometimes Geralt was thick. He didn’t understand when led to water, and he certainly didn’t understand when someone shoved him in, bathed him, massaged him, and forced him to a party as his guest.

Jaskier wasn’t sure it was love, but he knew he didn’t want to live without the other man. And he wanted him to live without pain. He had saved his coin, and they could just stop for a while. A year or two. To relax, and just not suffer.

“I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me,” Geralt insisted.

Jaskier nodded, rinsing Geralt’s hair and finger combing it smooth in gentle strokes. 

“And here we are,” Jaskier said softly.

Geralt grunted, and Jaskier sighed. 

He should tell him. Tell him that the magic he felt was his soul bound to his. That he had been raised knowing that his every breath, his every heartbeat, his very life, belonged to the witcher. That the witcher would slow and die one day, but if he did so while Jaskier was still alive his heart wouldn’t pause, and Jaskier would give him the gift of his last breath.

But Jaskier knew the man. He wouldn’t accept such a gift, he would be enraged and see it as a curse. He would try to break it.

And Jaskier was certain it would break him not to be able to be so close to Geralt on that level. He had never known a life where he hadn’t had his other with him on that level, and he was sure he wouldn’t be able to live without it.

Geralt needed him, needed him to know when to bring potions, to bind wounds that the witcher ignored, and to, generally, tell him when his plans were stupid and were going to get him killed. Get both of them killed.

“We should get ready, the banquet is soon,” Jaskier said, squeezing Geralt’s shoulders one last time before he rose.

Geralt gave a grouchy growl, but accepted the offered towel when he rose from the bath.

* * *

Geralt growled as he watched the lord approach Jaskier, trapping him against the wall. He had been joking about the lords wanting blood and flesh from the bard just because of a few tumbles in the wrong sheets, but, apparently, he had been wrong.

He didn’t like the man threatening his Jaskier. The fool couldn’t keep it in his pants if his life depended on it, but it wasn’t worth whatever threats were being thrown around that made his face tremble.

“Geralt,” Mousesack asked curiously.

“Excuse me,” Geralt grumbled.

He needed to save his bard from getting himself killed. Or bloodied. Geralt just wanted an ale and a soft bed, having to bloody a lord would get in the way of that.

“Good luck my old friend,” Mousesack grinned, and Geralt ignored him as he stomped across the room.

“No,” Geralt snapped, interrupting whatever the pompous bastard was about to say.

“Excuse me,” the lord demanded, turning to face him.

Geralt grinned as the lord’s face paled. For once he was glad he stood out in the crowd, easily recognizable. He was a witcher. He was the creature nannies used to threaten little children. Given the wide eyes and the sweating, the lord certainly remembered more than a few of those stories.

“I see I was mistaken,” he quavered, “My apologies.”

Geralt just grinned as he rushed away, before turning on Jaskier. The man was pressed against the wall, breathing evenly, but his legs trembling.

“You need to quit getting caught,” Geralt growled, “I won’t always be here to stop them.”

“What fun would that be,” Jaskier smiled weakly, “Part of the joy is the risk!”

Geralt just shook his head.

“Play your music, and then we’re leaving,” he grunted, “I don’t want to have to save you again tonight.”

The ache in his chest pulled when Jaskier beamed at him, and Geralt just sighed. The man was his own worse enemy.

* * *

Jaskier stared up at the princess as she floated with her beloved in awe.

It wasn’t the same soul magic as his family used, but he would recognize two souls that longed for each other anywhere. Those two loved with a magical passion he could only envy. Never in his wildest days would he be able to describe it in sweet prose without aching at how hollow it was compared to the real thing.

But he also knew the taint of his family’s magic. And that knight, brave and true, stank of it. 

Someone, somewhere, had bonded one of his family to him. His little nephew he assumed, the child an unfortunate younger twin the moment he was born. It was his bonding that had finally given Jaskier the drive to leave. To watch the tiny child die would be too much for him.

Had he died tonight? He thought not. The knight had never wavered, and Jaskier had never seen him injured. Perhaps the little boy still breathed.

He gasped as the magic broke, his heart wavering and he took a gasping breath.

He hoped Geralt didn’t need his breath this night, it would be embarrassing to die in front of a mad queen.

And an even madder double wedding. He had to stifle a laugh as Geralt glanced at him and Jaskier shrugged. The court was madness at times, it had to be to adapt and accept what was happening.

“I claim as you have,” Geralt said, grabbing Jaskier’s arm as he walked by, “The Law of Surprise.”

And Jaskier would have howled with laughter if he hadn’t been as shocked as Geralt and the rest of the court. His witcher, his beautiful, stupid witcher, had just found himself a child. A magical child, sired by magical parents, crafted by magical love.

Jaskier felt his soul quaver, and he let the little echo dance through Geralt. It wasn’t soul magic, not truly, but it was close enough akin that he could feel it. Could feel it trying to intertwine with Geralt’s, braiding itself into his destiny.

Geralt would make a terrible father, Jaskier smiled, all gruff and lost. Jaskier would have to stay with him just to make sure that he stayed sane. Not that he knew children any better, but he at least knew curiosity.

Geralt hauled him along, glaring at any that would dare follow.

“Congratulations are in order,” Jaskier smiled, “You’re a father!”

“Witcher’s don’t father children,” Geralt growled.

“Magic has a strange way of tying paths in funny little knots,” Jaskier said, allowing himself to be led from the castle.

He was high on the night, his mind dancing and his soul souring. It was like the universe had sung gold and silver, and rained diamonds through his mind. He could taste them even now, if he closed his eyes and tried hard enough.

“What are you doing,” Geralt demanded, and Jaskier blinked and opened his eyes.

“Tasting the night,” Jaskier asked uncertainly.

Couldn’t the other man feel what was going on around them? Surely he could. He wasn’t a magic user, but surely that little medallion of his, that he complained about, was screaming.

“Are you drunk,” Geralt demanded.

“No,” Jaskier said, “Just.. a lot happened.”

He was coming to the slow realization, in horror, that the other man hadn’t felt anything that had happened with the princess and her beloved. He hadn’t been able to feel the magic as it danced in the air, of the love it sang.

He couldn’t feel the braided strand of his destined child caressing against his soul. 

Jaskier swallowed. 

He couldn’t imagine living so blind, so cold. He had never known a life where he hadn’t felt another soul. 

Geralt, he reminded himself, couldn’t feel his soul. His soul was the lesser, the supporting strand in case one should snap like a lute string. It could barely even be called his soul at all, after all these years.

“Come on,” Geralt said, his eyes roaming Jaskier’s face before tugging him along once more, “We’re leaving.”

Jaskier continued to stumble after him, gently caressing the tiny strand that was intertwining with the witcher’s. Jaskier wondered if he could spare a breath for the child too.

It would have a hard life tied to someone who couldn’t feel like they could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Jaskier, you stumble into the saddest situations sometimes.
> 
> Also yes, Yennefer will be making her appearance in the next chapter. And there will be no Yennefer bashing, I promise. She's the kind of chick I would open a wine bottle with and we'd both bitch about everything that's going on in our lives.
> 
> Happy reading!


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier smiled sleepily as he rolled over and snuggled into the warm body laying next to him. He could still feel the burning sting of the whip strokes down his back, and he doubted he would sit comfortably for a week. But it had been so worth it.

“I’ve never met anyone that enjoyed that as much as you did,” the woman smiled, kissing Jaskier’s cheek softly, “You barely even hitched a breath. You have to tell me who you played with before.”

Jaskier grinned and buried his face in her golden curls.

He couldn’t even begin to explain how easy it was to manage pain by now. Nothing the countess had done to him came near what Geralt felt on a regular basis. No fang or claw or poison. 

But he enjoyed it. The pain was his, and his alone, and it made him feel alive. It made his skin burn and his body ache, but it was his ache. He consented to it, instead of sitting and suffering through it while Geralt took the blows.

And he loved every moment of it. 

Some days, if he woke up without a lingering stab somewhere, he doubted he had woken up at all, and hadn’t just gasped out his last breath in his sleep. Pain was life. Life felt pain.

But he enjoyed mixing a good deal of pleasure in with it when he could.

“I told you,” Jaskier whispered, kissing down her lovely throat, “A little star buried in the dark heavens shines just for me.”

The countess rolled her eyes and pulled him in to a deeper kiss.

“And your little star doesn’t mind you playing in foreign beds,” the woman asked.

Jaskier had to laugh at that. The very idea of Geralt judging him for his habits was laughable; between the two of them they had visited every brothel built. Geralt only seemed put out when it involved hauling him to safety.

Although Jaskier had tried to be a little better, and more careful, lover these days.

No one was chasing him out of the Countess de Stael’s lovely chambers, that was for sure.

“My little star,” Jaskier kissed while reaching out to thumb over a nipple, “Shadows the mortal world, and cares not to live in it.”

And his little star, as he felt the ache throbbing in the back of his head, signaling a coming headache, was making what was supposed to be a delightful morning a misery. He could feel his soul tightening, the witcher was nearby, and Jaskier sighed.

He had hoped to spend a few more days here, enjoy the pleasures of being a naughty bedroom secret, before prancing back to Geralt’s side. But he knew the different between a nuisance and a building problem, and Geralt clearly needed him.

That damn man had no timing at all.

“You’re distracted,” the countess huffed as Jaskier’s hand slipped.

“I think I miss my little diamond in the heavens,” Jaskier admitted, “They take such caring for, that they dim when I’m away.”

And Jaskier made a note of the woman’s grim scowl. This, clearly, was not going to be the quick escape he was hoping for. He wasn’t very good at the leaving in the morning sweet talk. Normally it was clothes and lute thrown out the window while he was ducking angry swords and objects.

“Then go and shine your little star,” the countess snapped, sitting up and winding the sheet around herself as she left the bed, “The sun has better things to do this day.”

Jaskier flopped back and groaned as the door slammed shut.

Damn Geralt and whatever the hell he was getting up to. That man needed such looking after it was a wonder he had survived this long on his own.

* * *

Geralt growled as he threw the fishing net in the pond once more. His skin burned and his chest ached, and he couldn’t sleep without nightmares of gold wrapping around him and holding him tight. No matter how hard he struggled, he was bound.

And all the while he heard his bard laughing and singing.

Geralt shook the leaves and sticks from the net and cast it again.

He hadn’t seen the other man in weeks. He shouldn’t have him in his head, or his dreams! Especially not whispering babbling little lullabies into the darkness, stroking those damn golden threads.

This was because of whatever had happened in Cintra, he was sure. That damn child surprise, that he never had any intention of claiming, and the magic that still wrapped around Jaskier. That fucking magic was interfering with everything again.

And he still couldn’t sleep!

The pull went slack, and Geralt ignored it when he heard the humming of his bard approaching from behind. At least that was one weight off his chest. Clearly he hadn’t been killed by another cuckold husband, though Geralt doubted it was from lack of trying.

“Geralt,” Jaskier was all smiled and sunshine, and Geralt just growled harder.

The man even glowed gold!

“You seem rather out of sorts,” Jaskier smiled, and Geralt ignored him as he hovered, “Here I am, heartbroken that the Countess de Stael has thrown me from her loving embrace once more, and you look all the poorer of us.”

“I can’t sleep,” Geralt growled, definitely not leaning in toward the other man as he shook out the fishing net once more.

“That would be a bother,” Jaskier agreed, “It’s not a spell, or something you ate, and definitely not poison...”

Jaskier trailed off and Geralt walked farther down the water’s edge, ignoring whatever nonsense his bard was muttering now. He always insisted he knew these things these days. He hadn’t been here, he couldn’t know.

“A djinn,” Geralt finally growled as Jaskier started massaging lightly at his head and placing a hand against his forehead.

“Is this a witcher thing,” Jaskier asked, still fingering his hair.

Geralt closed his eyes, enjoying the feel for a moment, before he opened them again and cast the net. 

“I can’t sleep,” Geralt repeated, trying to explain but everything but exhaustion fading from his mind, “Wishes will cure it.”

“I rather doubt they will,” Jaskier snorted, working at the base of his neck with both hands, and Geralt had to admit this felt better than anything had in days.

He stared at the net, and the jar, in shock. He hadn’t even noticed hauling it up, and looked up at Jaskier in surprise. The bard stared over his shoulders and Geralt held the jar away as he noted the curious gleam in the other man’s eyes.

He was like a cat, he couldn’t stay away from trouble.

“I’ve never seen a djinn,” Jaskier said, “Are they exciting?”

“No,” Geralt growled, holding the amphora away from the curious bard, “They’re dangerous.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, “Of course they’re dangerous. You don’t ever do anything that isn’t.”

Geralt snorted, pulling at the plug at the top as Jaskier practically crawled over him to see what was about to happen. The man had no sense of self preservation. 

“Dammit, give me a little peace,” Geralt growled as the seal popped and… Geralt stared at the empty amphora.

His medallion hummed, vibrating a warning of magic, but he couldn’t tell if it was because of the djinn or because Jaskier was practically draped over his shoulders. He frowned as Jaskier made a sound, a wounded gasp escaping his throat, and then Geralt stared at him in horror.

Blood was seeping down his chin, and his throat was swelling.

“Dammit,” Geralt snapped, grabbing him before he could collapse.

Jaskier gasped, sputtering, and Geralt grabbed his hand. He could almost swear that the gold that had tinged the other man was fading. That couldn’t be right, Jaskier wasn’t gold, he was a damn bard.

A _nuisance_!

His bard.

“Fuck,” Geralt grabbed him and slung him over his shoulder as he ran for Roach. 

He needed a mage, now.

* * *

Jaskier was rather surprised when he opened his eyes. He hadn’t expected to do that ever again. He could feel Geralt, and groaned as the pounding headache made itself known.

Leave it to his damn witcher to go and make sure they were both still alive by getting smacked around. Could the man not take three steps without getting in a fight!? Couldn’t he fuck himself through whatever problem he was facing!?

Not that Jaskier really got much from the pleasure side of the bond. Apparently the man was an apathetic, though energetic, lover. 

“You’re awake, Pankratz,” a woman said, and Jaskier blinked as he looked up.

He really hoped he wasn’t a human sacrifice. She was beautiful, but he didn’t want to die. Again. Had he been dead? No, he had been in pain, and pain meant life.

“You know my name,” Jaskier asked, feeling at his throat in surprise when he found he could speak.

“Your kind doesn’t usually leave Lettenhove,” she continued, easing herself on the bed, “Especially not once you’ve been bound.”

Jaskier blinked. He had never met anyone that knew of his soul bond before, not that he asked on a regular basis. He had given up hope that anyone could see it at all after Geralt couldn’t after the banquet.

“I am a rare and magnificent beast,” Jaskier grinned, rolling over and waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

The woman snorted and rolled her eyes.

“Being this close to the witcher is interfering with his destiny,” the woman said, flicking at his nose.

Jaskier frowned. He had suspected, but now that it was confirmed it actually hurt to hear. He had just wanted to meet the man, and now be close to him. He didn’t want to pull him away from his path.

“You didn’t know,” she said, sitting up and studying him intently.

“We usually die young,” Jaskier explained, relaxing against a pillow, “Forbidden from setting foot from our lands.”

“And you,” she waved her hand as way of question.

“I couldn’t stand the prison any longer and went for an adventure.”

“You certainly got one,” she said, standing up and flipping through the pages of a book.

“The djinn isn’t here anymore,” Jaskier said with a sigh, “It can’t be.”

“What makes you think-”

“I know a binding ritual when I see one,” Jaskier said, motioning at himself, “It wouldn’t work. The djinn couldn’t be bound to Geralt. Souls can only have a single full binding.”

“And if something tries,” the sorceress asked, curious.

“Nothing,” Jaskier smiled, “Just nothing.”

“Your throat wasn’t nothing,” she pointed out.

“I don’t know how djinns work,” Jaskier admitted, “I just know soul bonds. So, thank you for saving me...”

“Yennefer,” Yennefer said, slamming the book shut angrily.

Jaskier watcher her curiously. He had never met a sorceress before, although he had heard they were all beautiful, he couldn’t imagine what would need with a djinn.

“Maybe the djinn has bonded with your soul, Pankratz,” Yennefer said, turning on the bard.

“Jaskier,” Jaskier corrected, trying to stand, wobbly, “Can’t have been that, I don’t have enough of a soul left to bond with.”

Yennefer paused, and Jaskier just shrugged. It was the truth. And it was so much relief to be able to speak to someone about it, even if they didn’t really understand. His little golden thread was a waning spark next to Geralt’s these days, trying to coil around and support him, and the delicate little child’s, and stretching itself too thin. It was too much for him these days, but it was enough. He still had years and years left, and he doubted that Geralt would be able to do anything but get killed in the meantime.

It was a minor miracle he hadn’t at all at this point.

“So, where have you put my witcher after you bashed his head in?”

“I didn’t bash anything,” Yennefer frowned.

“Well, someone did,” Jaskier growled, eyeing her, “I don’t appreciate waking up with a headache.”

“You can feel his pain. How much? Just physical, or other attacks as well?”

Jaskier backed against the wall as the sorceress began demanding answers. He normally at least slept with someone first before he had an angry woman aggressively in his face in a bedroom. Although, she did look like someone who would enjoy wielding something nice and solid in his direction. Hell, she probably already had an entire selection of whips and chains to choose from.

“Where is he,” Jaskier asked again, trying to maintain his footing.

“I sent him off to cause some trouble. His concern was becoming aggravating,” Yennefer said, and Jaskier sighed.

Of course, that itching hungover feeling. He had almost missed it under the pain of the migraine that was steadily building in Geralt’s head. She had enchanted the man and set him to be beaten.

“Next time just beat me instead,” Jaskier groaned, “It really is more preferable.”

“Next time?” Yennefer snorted, grabbing Jaskier’s arm and leading him back to bed, “Why would there be a next time, _Jaskier_? You don’t even have what I want now.”

The door slammed open and they both stared at an irate witcher, his hair standing on end, glaring at them. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier chirped, sitting up and sliding Yennefer behind him ever so slightly as he stood, his legs a little sturdier as his soul leaned on the witcher.

He blinked, that was new.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, glaring at the sorceress as Jaskier stumbled toward him, “You’re alright.”

“Of course,” Jaskier smiled, frowning as he started trying to figure out what sort of nest of tangles his witcher had caused in his hair, letting his fingers dance around the spots that he knew helped clear up Geralt’s headaches, “Yennefer is really quite good at healing.”

Geralt glanced around the room, his eyes tightening on the candles.

“The djinn rather ran off, it seems,” Jaskier continued, frowning at the dirt and grime, it was going to take a week to get the locks silky again!

“Ran off,” Geralt growled, but Jaskier knew his anger was fading with his headache.

Yennefer just sat on the bed and smirked at the scene as it unfolded before her. He was never going to live this down.

“Not a word from you,” Jaskier snapped, “Have you seen the shape of his hair!? Completely uncalled for, a true tragedy, really.”

Yennefer stood up with an elegant stretch that Jaskier envied, and pointed toward the far door, “There’s a bath down the hallway, the witcher knows the way.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, sniffing delicately and realizing that, indeed, Geralt lacked the dirt laden musk that he normally carried about his person. Kudos to her, she had at least gotten him clean before she started throwing spells around.

“I don’t need-”

“Yes you do,” Jaskier grouched, cutting off the argument, “Or I’ll have to cut your hair to get the knots out.”

Geralt growled, his teeth showing, but turned and stomped from the room.

“You have him on quite the leash,” Yennefer laughed.

“Rather the opposite,” Jaskier sighed, wilting and leaning against the door as Geralt left, and his soul drifted too far to brace against.

Yennefer frowned, looking over Jaskier, and through him, if he knew that gaze. 

“You’re fading,” she finally said.

“It can’t be helped,” Jaskier smiled, “It won’t matter when I give him my gift.”

“Your gift?” Yennefer asked, curiously.

“My last breath, so he may breathe again.”

Jaskier smiled, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t tell him,” Jaskier whispered, “He can never know.”

Yennefer nodded sadly, and Jaskier turned to wander after Geralt, bracing himself heavily against the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: why does this shit keep happening to me!?
> 
> Geralt: *let's Jaskier play with his hair. A lot*
> 
> Jaskier: Okay, this is great, but still!
> 
> Yennefer: *drinks wine and rolls eyes* Oh just fuck already.
> 
> Roach: I'm with her, you too have sexual tension issues.
> 
> Jaskier: Not the only kind of tension issues...
> 
> Geralt: ... what?


	8. Chapter 8

Jaskier finishes a fourth ale with thirsty ease, waving off the crowd as they call for another encore. It was getting late, and Geralt, Geralt who had lingered to watch, much to Jaskier’s surprise, was looking grouchy. Or, at least, grouchier.

The man never didn’t look grouchy.

So, with a flourish, he grabbed up his lute and happily followed his witcher up to their room.

Geralt’s shoulders are tense, and Jaskier sighs. The man could find a way to wind himself into a corkscrew just by looking a flower. The only time he seemed to relax these days was when he was hitting things with a sword. Or fucking.

A lazy smile worked its way across Jaskier’s face as he closed the door behind him. 

He had been following his other for years, had tied himself tighter and tighter until he wasn’t sure he knew if he was anything more than a walking memory of who he used to be. Yes, he still enjoyed his life, but he couldn’t help but feel that it faded away compared to the pull that was Geralt.

Tall, muscular, sexy as all fuck Geralt. 

Who was stripping off his armor like the world’s worst strip tease.

Jaskier threw his cares to the wind and sauntered over, digging his hands into the other man’s hair and starting to massage, his fingers tracing down to his neck. Geralt stilled for a moment, and then grunted, leaning into it.

Jaskier continued, working his way to his shoulders, and then turning and pushing Geralt down onto his bed.

Geralt stares at him, and Jaskier can feel the bond thrumming. He can feel himself wrapping around his life, protecting it, fading into it. Everything for him. Everything was him.

Jaskier leaned forward, and kissed him.

In Jaskier’s imagination, the world would have exploded into gold and he would have had the best night of his life. Geralt would have pulled him closer, and clothes would have gone missing along the way. He would know just how hard and soft he liked it, been the perfect lover.

Instead, he found himself dazed, watching golden stars explode into nothingness around him, sitting on his ass on the floor as Geralt stared down at him. He didn’t quite understand what had happened. Maybe the kiss hadn’t been good enough?

That could have been it. Geralt enjoyed the more painful parts of life, he knew that for a brutal fact. He should have kissed with his teeth, nibbled, drawn a little blood. Just needed to pay more attention, that was all.

Jaskier rose to his feet, stepping closer to Geralt, only to find himself stopped by the witcher’s hand and a furious glare.

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts, pleading with the other man.

“No,” Geralt snaps.

“Please,” Jaskier begs, struggling against the witcher’s hand helplessly.

Didn’t he understand? He just wanted to be closer to him. He just wanted to feel whole!

“You’re drunk,” Geralt said, pushing him back onto the floor and turning to grab his gear.

“Not that much,” Jaskier argued, climbing back to his feet, happy to show that they were steady.

“Enough,” Geralt growled, taking the bard by the shoulders and throwing him onto the bed, “I’m leaving.”

“But,” Jaskier pleaded, stumbling off the bed only to watch the door slam shut behind the white haired man.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier cried, dropping to the floor, his soul aching at the rejection, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around himself, crying.

His chest throbbed and his heart ached, and he could barely concentrate on his breathing. All he wanted was to collapse into the other man, to have him hold him, to let him knit himself into his life.

He was tired of feeling tired and stretched, he just wanted to be part of that golden strand that beckoned to him in his dreams. The completeness it promised he would have one day.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Jaskier fell asleep sobbing, his breath hitching but still as even as he had been taught. His gift was still Geralt’s, forever.

* * *

Geralt pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders as he weathered against the blowing snow as the dawn’s first light washed across the path. He was a fool, he knew. His bard had practically thrown himself at him, had thrown himself at him, and he had walked away.

Had pushed the man away and stormed out of the room like a petulant two year old.

But he couldn’t help it. Being near him was too much at times, he crowded against his senses, nearly overwhelmed him. He knew every place to brush his fingers, every little patch of skin that made him fall apart and want to crawl in his lap like a fawning kitten.

And he couldn’t figure out why.

He was a witcher, foul and fierce, Jaskier should be busying fawning over bejeweled women in rich courts, not concerning himself with such mundane things as the knots in Geralt’s hair.

But he did. He followed him around and whined about fancy delicacies, and spoiled Roach, and _washed his hair_.

Lambert would never let him hear the end of it if he ever found out.

And even Geralt had known that night would come. No one bathes another person, massages salves into their wounds, without expecting it to end in sex. Especially not a man like his bard, who was legendary for his escapes after fucking his way through courts.

Geralt shivered, his shoulders drooping.

He was exhausted. And his chest felt tight, like it always did when Jaskier wasn’t near.

But he didn’t want to be just another notch in his bard’s lute. He didn’t want to be a drunk tumble through the sheets, and then be left having to save him from the next cuckold that was after his head.

Jaskier was his friend. His best friend. And he wanted more than an ale fueled evening. If he had stayed, he would have given in, and he would have regretted it.

“I’ll apologize in the spring,” Geralt reassured Roach.

Because he knew he would see the other man once he left Kaer Morhen. They always crossed paths fairly quickly once he came down off the mountain. Destiny was at least kind enough to have their paths crossing frequently.

* * *

Jaskier stared up at the sorceress in surprise, trying to lift his head from the table and failing miserably. It was unfair that she could just stand there, all tall and looming, and not fall over. He wasn’t sure he would be able to stand again.

He was so happy the table agreed with him and supported him in his time of need.

“You smell,” she snapped, and Jaskier sighed.

He probably did. Baths were something he did with Geralt. He was avoiding baths.

“And you’re drunk, and you look pathetic.”

“My kiss wasn’t good enough,” Jaskier said, eyeing the mug and wondering if he could get it to pour sweet, sweet ale into his mouth without getting in his nose.

He had gotten ale all over his face the last time he had tried.

“I stand corrected,” Yennefer said, “You are pathetic.”

“I know,” Jaskier agreed solemnly, “That’s why Geralt didn’t want to kiss me.”

“Roach wouldn’t want to kiss you smelling like this,” she sighed, sliding into the booth across from his and grabbing his ale.

“Mine,” Jaskier whined halfheartedly, managing to sit up and lean against the wall.

It was cold, and he wasn’t comfortable, and he had fucked up his life, and he just wanted to cry. And the worst of it all was that Yennefer wouldn’t give him back his ale.

“Where is the growling bastard anyway,” Yennefer asked, glancing around, “It isn’t like him to leave you miserable and defenseless.”

“He hibernates in the winter,” Jaskier told her solemnly, staring at the new mug the bar wench had placed in front of him.

He took a gulp and spluttered, glaring at his grinning friend. This was tea!

“Tea,” Jaskier squawked.

“You’re already drunk enough for the both of us, drink your tea,” Yennefer smiled sadly.

Jaskier, wisely, obeyed. With sips. At least the tea was good. Better than the watered down horse piss he had been drinking.

“I shouldn’t have kissed him,” Jaskier said.

“Then why did you,” Yen asked, leaning back and staring at the bard.

“He always goes north for the winter, and it always _hurts_ ,” Jaskier admitted sadly, “It’s like my soul is being stretched and torn with him so far away. I’ll snap. And I thought… I thought it would help make things better. That maybe a little fire could keep me warm this winter.”

“Oh Jaskier,” Yen said, grabbing one of Jaskier’s hands and stroking it gently, “I didn’t know it hurt you so much.”

“It didn’t always,” Jaskier said, “But, you know...”

“The fading is getting worse,” Yen agreed.

Jaskier nodded and sniffed, but the tears continued to stream.

“Winter with me,” Yen offered, “It won’t be Geralt, but it’ll be warm and comfortable.”

“I can’t,” Jaskier smiled sadly, “I’m going to Cintra. The court.”

“The child surprise,” Yen raised an eyebrow, and Jaskier nodded.

“Her thread is tied to his. It makes it a little easier, like having a little of him nearby. Only curious, and conversational,” Jaskier smiled weakly, pulling away from his friend to wipe at his eyes, “I should be setting off in the morning if I’m to make any sort of time.”

“Fuck that,” Yen waved her hand, “Perks of knowing a sorceress. I’ll portal you in the morning. After you’re bathed and sober. I won’t be known as the sorceress that’s friends with a drunk smelly bard.”

“Thanks Yen,” Jaskier smiled weakly.

It was good to have friends. Two of them, even! The best in the world.

“Always, my friend,” Yennefer returned the smile, “Now let’s get you clean and in bed. You have an entrance to make in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: *attempts to end the sexual tension with sex*
> 
> Geralt: *doesn't understand and runs away*
> 
> Roach: why the hell am I the one that has to walk through drifts of snow in the middle of the night because of you two assholes!?


	9. Chapter 9

Geralt growled at the innkeeper as the mug of ale was placed before him, and didn’t care about the silence that echoed through the room. His chest throbbed and his skin felt like it was peeling itself from the inside out. 

Vesemir had had enough and tossed him out before the snow had finished falling for the season after he had nearly ripped a limb off of Lambert for the third time. He wasn’t angry because of a woman. 

He wasn’t angry at all. He was furious. 

The nightmares echoed through his mind every time he stopped to close his eyes. Golden threads, golden threads on golden threads on golden threads. And there, clinging limply to the mass, a tiny whisker of a strand. Still shining palely. 

When he cupped it gently, stroked it, he could hear the distant echoes of Jaskier’s voice trilling through his mind.

He missed the other man. His friend.

He had made a mistake before he had left, he knew that. He should have taken his damn bard by the back of his jacket it and hauled him up the mountain with him. Should have thrown him in bed and kept him warm all winter.

He should have kept his bard near.

The mug was quickly replaced by another, and Geralt never looked up. 

He didn’t intend to get drunk, but anything was better than the quivering madness that warped through his skin. Vesemir had shook his head and nothing in any book the fortress still held described anything like it.

It wasn’t a curse. Or a spell. Or even a damn enchantment.

All he knew was that Jaskier was involved, and that, one way or another, he would fix it.

Geralt, passed on the third mug and stormed up the stairs. South. Of course the little song bird was south, where he could be warm, and safe.

The noise picked up as he disappeared from sight and Geralt resisted the urge to turn back and growl when he heard the bard begin to sing again. A popular song. Jaskier’s song.

But the fool was maiming it. 

He missed Jaskier’s voice.

* * *

“Again,” the little girl insisted, her golden locks bouncing furiously as she glared at Jaskier.

Jaskier leaned back in his chair, precariously close to the well built fire that dimmed the small room that closed in around them, and sighed. He had come to this room to curl up in the heat and rest. He was exhausted, and the winter continued to stretch on before him.

He should have begged Yen for a spell that would put him to sleep until the warmth of the green trees woke once more. 

But, instead, he played in the evenings, slept in the servants halls, and hid in this tiny room when the pain was too much.

Geralt was so, so far away, and his soul was practically unraveling to reach him.

It was only the tiny princess in front of him, barely able to stomp her feet without falling, that kept him steady. Her golden soul was so tied in with Geralt’s that he could lean on it, just a little, and make it through the days without collapsing.

But just barely.

His breath caught in his throat some evenings, and he struggled to give it back.

At least Geralt was tucked safely away in his northern snows, where pain did not touch him.

Not much pain, at least. Jaskier didn’t even consider training injuries worth noticing any more.

“How about another,” Jaskier asked, his lute already in his fingers.

But he knew the answer. She only like the songs of the White Wolf. Grand tales of victorious battles and defeated creatures. And saved princesses, she was very insistent on that. She wanted a princess saved in the end.

Jaskier enjoyed crafting her new little ballads, full of sweet things to dance in her dreams at night. She had had nightmares, others had whispered in passing, but they had past. And with them, the memory of her parents.

The poor little child. So fierce, so bold, so gold.

Jaskier knew he didn’t breathe for her, but he let himself think so when he watched her little threads dance around Geralt’s. The other man would have no idea what to do with her, but he would be lucky to have her. If she didn’t drive him insane with her royal decrees.

“With a werewolf,” Jaskier offered, “A fearsome beast that prowls the moors on a a blood full moon night!”

“Sounds stinky,” Ciri said after thinking for a moment, “A unicorn? I like unicorns!”

“The White Wolf never slew a unicorn,” Jaskier admitted.

Or every saw one either, to his knowledge. Certainly wasn’t anything he ever mentioned.

“Did he save one?” Ciri asked hopefully.

Jaskier shrugged and nodded. These were songs for the little princess, not Cintra’s great halls. He doubted the child would even remember them the moment she dashed out the door to have adventures of her own. She certainly never asked for the sillier ones again.

Though she did have an annoying fondness to his little prattle about tossing coins to witchers.

Geralt would snap his ribs in laughter if he ever found out how that song had come to grate on Jaskier’s nerves.

“Please,” Ciri pleaded, and Jaskier smiled and relented.

The fire was warm, the room was cozy, and, for one of the few moments of the day, his soul wasn’t falling to pieces in his hands. He could entertain the little princess a little longer. Though he was going to pitch her out the window into the snow if she asked him to sing about a princess marrying his witcher one more time.

Even he had lines he would not cross.

* * *

Jaskier let himself relax against the warm stones of the tiny fireplace, the flames nothing more than a fading memory. His body ached, ached as it did with every passing moment. But the ache was his life, and he had learned to let it wash over him like the waves of the ocean he had never seen.

He wanted to see the ocean. Push a glowering Geralt in and laugh as he braided sand and seaweed in his hair. And he teach little Ciri to weave flower crowns.

He smiled at the thought of it, a memory that would never be.

Jaskier shivered against the cooling stone and groaned. He wasn’t old, he told himself. There were many older then he that were spritely, running and spinning around court without a care. But, in his family, with his life, he was ancient.

How many nieces and nephews had he lost by now? He knew the little wailing twin was gone, though a shipwreck seemed to have defeated his family’s magic given Ciri’s continued orphan status. 

The poor girl. But she was as fierce as her grandmother, and Geralt could wish for no better daughter.

Jaskier paused, breathing in and out slowly, and closed his eyes. He could see the strands wrapping around themselves, and he was so happy to be near the golden…

Eyes snapped open as he looked to the north. Geralt wasn’t burrowed in his winter haunt any longer. He was drifting south. Painlessly, but south none the less.

Jaskier felt his heart beat quicken. His witcher had come back early. 

He grabbed his lute and flew toward his room. Ciri would miss her little story teller, but the court would easily move on without him. Bards were flighty creatures, often disappearing on a whim. And he had more important things to do than sit around and wait.

Geralt would never come near Cintra, he avoided it like the plague. So Jaskier would simply have to go to him.

He would be better this time. He would try harder.

Everything for Geralt. Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: yay, happiness!
> 
> Jaskier: what do you have behind your back?
> 
> Me: nothing...
> 
> Jaskier: you have a sword! Why do you always have a sword!?
> 
> Me: it's a metaphorical sword, it doesn't count!
> 
> Jaskier: I don't want to be metaphorically sworded either!
> 
> Me: well, then, maybe you shouldn't need to suffer for the fandom!
> 
> Jaskier: I shouldn't!
> 
> Yennefer: *pours wine and hands out glasses*
> 
> Geralt: *continues to be pig headed and confused*


	10. Chapter 10

Jaskier strummed his lute and continued to sing his song as he felt his bond thrumming in anticipation. He had been waiting for this for nearly a week now. This cramped tavern, smelling of horse and sweat, was at the crossroads. Geralt would pass through here, without a doubt, if he was still heading south.

Jaskier didn’t like to admit that it was also as far north as he had been able to get before nearly collapsing the week before, his feet sore and his body aching. He had had to hole up in a room for three days, careful with his coin, before he began to sing for his supper.

At least the suppers were hot, though bland. Nothing compared to court food, but the thought of Geralt in the same room as him made it better.

His soul purred as the witcher drew closer, but Jaskier ignored it and continued to play.

If Geralt turned and left, he would follow. If he stayed, he would follow.

But the coin his singing brought would buy him, them, a bed for the night and much needed supplies, because he doubted that Geralt had been maintaining his. The man was forever short of healing potions of various sorts. And never had anything to kill the pain at all.

Jaskier invested heavily in pain potions at times. He was thankful his witcher never noticed.

The door opened, snow and cold blowing in, and the room practically glowed.

Jaskier looked up and shot him a grin, pulling in another verse of how he wooed the wood choppers daughter while escaping the axe. True story, oddly enough, though it had been a son. The wood chopper most likely not have been amused either way.

Geralt settled in a dark corner, ale in hand, and Jaskier passed the afternoon away.

The coin was little, the audience a mere trickle compared to what it would be in a few weeks when the roads began to thaw, but it was enough. Geralt was here, that would always be enough.

Geralt nursed a single ale into the evening, when Jaskier was happy to take a chilly bow and grab a hot mug of tea. 

He wanted the strength of ale, but remembered last time. He wouldn’t make the same mistake this time. He had learned. He could be better.

He grinned as he slid in the booth across from his witcher, and took a sip.

Geralt grunted, but he didn’t leave. At least it was a good sign.

“Fancy meeting you here, all stoic and brooding,” Jaskier continued to sip at his tea, “I didn’t expect you for a few more weeks.”

“Thought you were south,” Geralt grunted, finishing his ale with a single swig.

“I always come a little north this time of year,” Jaskier smiled, “Would be a shame to miss all the snow entirely.”

“The countess threw you out again,” Geralt said, smirking.

Jaskier laughed, and nodded. He wouldn’t deny that he had visited the lovely lady once or twice during the chilly months, but only when she found herself at the Cintran court. And, even then, it had been a tepid affair. All motions and no emotions. It had left him feeling more hollow afterward than anything.

“She is the more delightfully difficult of roses to cultivate,” Jaskier smiled, “Often choosing different gardeners to tend to her soft petals.”

Geralt went to motion for another ale, but Jaskier stopped him with a gentle hand, shaking his head.

“No more ale, Geralt,” the bard smiled hopefully, “I have a room. I wanted to -”

“Let’s go,” Geralt interrupted him, and Jaskier happily led the way, lute in hand.

Rough hands, white hair, sharp teeth, delicious lips. He had dreamed of this for years. Had hoped for it all winter. His heart fluttered in his chest as he took each step more lightly than the next. He had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be near the other man.

The raw power that echoed through to his soul. The strength of the witcher seemed to wash over him, invigorating him and reminding him what life felt like. It was more than waiting and wanting.

Geralt closed the door behind them, and they stared at one another. Jaskier fingered his lute awkwardly, and Geralt simply stared at him. Studying him. Jaskier twisted slightly, feeling as if he was being undressed, before he finally opened his mouth.

“The weather’s been cold,” Jaskier commented, strolling over and placing the lute carefully beside the bed.

Geralt didn’t even grunt in reply. 

“Geralt, I’m sorry-”

“No,” Geralt growled, grabbing him by the arms and staring into his eyes.

Jaskier could swear he saw his soul strands reflected in those golden slits. Two lifetimes braided so intricately that even mages would be jealous. A life he was happy to be twisted around.

And then Geralt’s lips were on his, and he could taste sour ale and blood, and he melted into it. The room glowed, and he closed his eyes to shield himself from it as he scrabbled to pull himself closer to his witcher. His witcher, who was road filthy and wearing armor, who rarely smiled but always saved a few pieces of dried fruit for his horse.

Fuck, he loved this man.

Geralt pulled back and Jaskier took the moment to breathe. The air twisted and shone gold around the witcher, and Jaskier hummed at the beauty that flowed through him. It was everything and better than imagined.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said.

“No,” Jaskier yelped, clinging tightly to him, “No, please. It was okay, amazing even! Just, please, don’t go.”

“I’m sorry for before,” Geralt said, his voice rasping and gruff, “I... I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven,” Jaskier grinned, leaning in and nipping at the man’s pale neck.

Geralt growled, and Jaskier found himself pinned against the wall, and enjoying the painful purity of Geralt’s prowess. He almost even enjoyed the taste of copper.

* * *

Geralt lay in bed, sweat cooling on his chest, and held the bard tight against him. The other man’s breaths came in the eerie regularity that always set Geralt’s teeth on edge. The man was human, had certainly never seemed to be anything but human, but he didn’t breathe like a human. 

And the magic that wove around him and made his medallion sing certainly wasn’t normal for a human.

And how the medallion had sung tonight. It had gone beyond the gentle humming that always calmed Geralt in Jaskier’s presence. Tonight he would swear that he saw the man glowing the palest shade of gold as he came.

Like the sunrise, slowly in a distant, foggy morning.

It was nearly too much. But he accepted it. Whatever it was, he accepted it was as part of Jaskier as his lute and his voice. The other man was his pale gold mystery now. And he was happier for it.

Jaskier stirred slightly, clinging tightly to his chest, and Geralt threaded fingers through his hair to calm him. It was still late, the moon grinning down at them through the dirty window. There was time enough to sleep and plan to head farther south come morning.

Because Geralt couldn’t pretend to look away as the other man shivered in the snow, and there was nowhere else to go save south for now. But spring was settling in the air, and there would be enough monsters to earn a few coins.

Geralt reached down and pulled the blanket, a tattered woolen affair, around them.

Jaskier mumbled and Geralt rolled his eyes, wrapping himself around the bard. Of course his bard would talk in his sleep. His first love would always be his voice it seemed. 

He nipped at Jaskier’s ear and tucked himself into the man’s hair, breathing in the dry, earthy scent that was his bard.

He was a witcher. Tomorrow may never come, but at least he had tonight. Happy, warm, and his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapters this weekend. I'm a kindergarten teacher in Japan, and this weekend is our school performance. So I'll be putting in 15 hour days until Monday. All so parents can see their children get stage fright, cry, and pee themselves on stage.
> 
> Every year. So much pee. 
> 
> It's even worse when other kids on stage see the pee and think it's a puddle and play in it. Yes, it's happened more than once.


	11. Chapter 11

Jaskier sat on the rock and hummed to himself, trying to compose the next stanza for his song. He had spent the last few months branching out, trying to avoid writing himself into a corner as nothing more than a singer of one note monster killing ballads.

Geralt had been more than helpful in supplying the research for several love songs. And Jaskier had been secretly writing a few about star crossed lovers doomed to be drawn apart by the golden weave of destiny. 

Those ones he would save for court, when Geralt stormed off to stick a sword in something rather than be fitted in a silk jacket and hidden in an alcove. The man may have looked like a god, but he had the temper of a demon when forced to socialize.

Jaskier couldn’t blame him on that last one, though he had learned to hide his own boredom of casual chit chat behind a mask of forever seeing an old friend off in the crowd rather than growling and snapping. Teeth, Jaskier had been surprised to discover, were quite the crowd please amongst some courtly ladies. Jaskier shared their pleasure, but was not happy sharing the sight.

Geralt was his, he was happy to claim.

“He’s dead,” the villager declared, glancing back up at the path Geralt had stormed up an hour past.

“Not dead,” Jaskier said, not bothering to look up.

He had a stone in his boot, but he was still very much alive. 

“Let’s go before the creature gets hungry and comes for us,” the man growled, and actually approached Roach to try to remove her saddlebags.

“No, I wouldn’t-” Jaskier got up to warn before gasping.

Geralt had clearly found the creature, and the hard side of a very solid rock.

His entire left side flared into agony, and Jaskier collapsed, biting his tongue to keep from screaming. His left arm felt as if it were on fire, and he could feel the flesh peeling away from the flames. This was more than a damn rock, this was poison. He could feel it trying to creep further into his body, boiling slowly through muddy veins.

The two men looked between one another at the bard, neither daring to approach. Roach, noticing the man’s hands on her saddlebags, gave him a nasty headbutt and reared, her front hooves waving menacingly.

Jaskier lay on the ground, concentrating on his breathing, and resisted the urge to chuckle. The horse was ridden by a witcher, did they honestly expect her to simply stand there and be robbed? She could kill creatures they couldn’t imagine and go back to begging for sweets without a care.

The two men looked between each other, and then the horse, before deciding that retreat was the better option, running into the brush. Jaskier sighed, letting his head loll in the dirt, sweat beginning to pool across his skin, and stared at the sky.

Whatever Geralt had found up there, it hadn’t been pleasant. 

But he could steel feel the stone biting into his foot when the boot came down, and the bruising agony of a solid landing as Geralt rolled and returned to his feet once more. He was so used to this he didn’t even need to be there to imagine what was happening.

Geralt had his sword out, but his left arm was limp. Half strength. One of his teeth was loose, and he had bitten his tongue.

Jaskier honestly wasn’t sure if that last one was Geralt or himself. His side still hurt, and he knew he had screamed at some point after something had slammed into Geralt’s leg.

“This is unexpected,” an old man said, appearing out the brush with two women following him.

Jaskier didn’t bother to move. Moving hurt. Roach could protect him.

The poison continued to sink deeper in his side, and Jaskier closed his eyes as he concentrated.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Geralt’s back slammed against the ground, and flesh split. Jaskier bit his lip, riding the wave of agony as it rolled over him. He needed to rise above this, and prepare the potions that Geralt would need. This was certainly more than a ‘sheep killing monster’ like the two men had grouched about.

Jaskier opened his eyes as the old man gently began to lift him, leaning him against the rock he had been sitting on, and signaled for the two women to search the bags. Given that his throat wasn’t slit, and that Roach merely looked curiously on, they weren’t a threat.

“I haven’t seen one of you in quite a long time,” the old man smiled sadly, “I wasn’t sure there were any left.”

“Me,” Jaskier asked with a gasp, “Lots of bards.”

“But none that are soul gifters,” the old man said, taking the potions from the two women, “Which one for your pain?”

“Clear,” Jaskier gasped, “Flowers and berries.”

The old man nodded, removing the cork and tipping it slowly into Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier gulped greedily, relishing the sweet taste of mint as it trickled down his throat. Yennefer’s concoctions were always the most palatable. 

The old man waited patiently as Jaskier felt the agony dwindle to a painful thrum, and stared at him, studying him intently. Jaskier nodded his thanks, rising to his feet gingerly. The fight was nearly through, he could feel the finishing blows ringing up his arms as Geralt hacked at the creature in anger.

“Thank you,” Jaskier panted, wiping the sweat from his brow, “Jaskier the bard, at your service.”

“Borch Three Jackdaws at yours, young soul gifter,” Borch smiled, and Jaskier glared at him.

“Bard,” Jaskier insisted, glancing wearily up the path Geralt had marched.

Borch glanced, and then his face opened in understanding.

“You’ve not told him,” Borch said in surprise, “You would take this burden without his consent? That’s not wise, it will eat you from the inside out.”

“Wasn’t my consent either,” Jaskier admitted, his chest an amazing gap of numbness as Yen’s potion began to sink in and go to work.

He would need a least a dozen more of the little vials the next time he saw her.

“I see,” Borch said sadly, “Things have changed since I last saw one of your kind. I apologize.”

Jaskier nodded, stretching and feeling the odd sensation of floating rather than standing. Maybe he should ask Yen to tone the potion down a little? He knew she was always experimenting with the mixture. This level was probably more for Geralt’s size than his.

“Just,” Jaskier paused and looked back up the path, “Don’t tell him?”

“I stand by how unwise a decision that is, but he’ll not hear it from my lips,” Borch agreed.

“And your friends?” Jaskier asked, nodding to the two silent women.

“They are warriors noble and true, they will keep their silence as well,” Borch smiled.

Jaskier sighed and shrugged, and then grabbed several vials from the collection the two women had gathered. Geralt was stumbling down the path, in pain, and he still had that rock in his boot. Jaskier laughed at that, he could feel that Geralt was more concerned with the rock in his boot than anything else.

“Geralt,” Jaskier smiled, ignoring the mangled head of the spider looking creature as it rolled down the path before the witcher, “I’ve made a friend!”

Geralt grunted, staggering to Roach, and Jaskier rolled his eyes and held out the vials, already uncorked. Geralt’s eyebrow rose, but he shrugged and gulped three of them down, before sitting heavily in the dirt and leaning against Roach’s leg. Jaskier knelt and began to remove his right boot.

“What are you doing,” Geralt asked wearily as the bard shook his boot out, the small stone tumbling to the ground.

“You need to check your boots more often,” Jaskier replied, handing the boot back to Geralt, “You’re going to get a limp walking around with stones like that.”

“Fuck off, bard,” Geralt growled back, and Jaskier laughed, “Who’re you?”

“Forgive me,” Borch smiled, “I am Borch Three Jackdaws, and I have a proposition for you.”

“Ask the bard,” Geralt said, carefully tying his boot, “He enjoys his tumbles through sheets more than me.”

“Excuse me,” Jaskier said, slapping at Geralt’s shoulder, “You’ll sleep alone for a month for that! Trying to sell me off to an old man like that!”

Geralt smirked, and Borch laughed heartily.

“I’m afraid I’m a little too old for that,” Borch smiled, “I have something a little more exciting involved. I want you to join me to hunt a dragon.”

Geralt glared at him, accepting Jaskier’s hand as he stood.

“Oooh, dragons are exciting,” Jaskier said, “We need more burn ointment first, though, we’re nearly out.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, “I don’t kill dragons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so episode 6 begins!
> 
> Jaskier: you got hurt fighting this, and this, and this, so we need this, and this, and this. And I need some more of that really fucking strong pain killer potion.
> 
> Geralt: *completely oblivious*
> 
> Everyone: *glares*
> 
> Geralt: ... hmmm
> 
> Also, I am happy to announce not a single one of my little two year old students peed themselves during practice today! Although one did cry because she had the wrong hand towel (everyone in Japan carries a hand towel, even the two year olds). She wanted her lucky Totoro one, and she had an Anpanman one instead. Thankfully I always have four Totoro hand towels on me so a switch made her happy.
> 
> Yeah, my life is full of sweet and cute. It's why I write angst. Something needs to balance it out. Not fucking you Convid-19, you don't balance anything out and make people panic buy weird shit!


	12. Chapter 12

Geralt stared at Borch as the man made a large order of food, and tried to ignore how Jaskier was pleasantly leaning on him. Drunk. 

“I’m an old man,” Borch smiled, “And I don’t have many firsts left.”

“Dragons are a last, not a first,” Geralt said, glancing at Jaskier worriedly.

A single mug of ale shouldn’t have sent him spiraling so fast. He grabbed his bard’s mug and sniffed it before tasting it. It wasn’t drugged, and he knew the man could hold his ale. To a degree. Certainly better than half a mug.

“I’m sure he just needs to sleep it off,” Borch smiled, “He’s had a long day.”

Geralt snorted, trying to clear the scent of mint from his nose. It was nearly impossible to smell anything over the scent, but he could tell it lingered on Jaskier, not himself. He frowned, he wasn’t injured. He would have noticed blood immediately, and Jaskier wasn’t one to keep quite about anything.

And this wasn’t the first time he had noticed the scent of the strong pain killer lingering on the bard over the years. He sighed, clearly they needed to talk. These potions were for witchers, he couldn’t even imagine the amount of damage they could be doing to a human.

“There are three other parties headed up the mountain,” Borch continued, “The Reavers, the Dwarves, and-”

“Yennefer!” Jaskier shouted happily, sitting up and waving at the sorceress.

Geralt groaned and started drinking. Heavily.

The sorceress was Jaskier’s friend, true, but he didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust any magic users farther than Jaskier could throw them, especially when they kept showing up in his bard’s company with cryptic comments. Geralt was unsure if they were flirting with each other, Jaskier certainly flirted with everyone that cross his path, but it felt particularly pointed when they did it.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer said with a smile, coming over to the table.

Jaskier continued to wave, his head leaning back onto Geralt’s shoulder as he giggled.

“He’s drunk,” Yennefer glared at Geralt.

Geralt sighed and shrugged his right shoulder, trying to keep Jaskier from falling off his left. He had forgotten how protective the sorceress was.

“He’s just a bit tired,” Borch said, his smile hollow, “Ale never helps after a long day.”

“Or a strong potion,” Geralt muttered.

Yennefer turned her glare on him, and Geralt looked away. He knew mages could read a person’s mind. He didn’t want her to see the conversation he needed to have with his bard about being more careful around potions. She might get the wrong idea.

“Of course we’ll go,” Jaskier said, “I’ve never seen a dragon before. And Yennefer is going! Makes the best potions doesn’t she, Geralt?”

Geralt grunted, taking another drink.

“Hunting recently, Geralt,” Yennefer asked, and Geralt could feel her anger.

Why the hell was she angry at him for hunting monsters? He was a witcher, it was what he did!

“Venemous arachas, up in the mountains,” Geralt replied.

“Ugly spider,” Jaskier piped up, “Full of poison and goo.”

“I see,” Yennefer replied frostily, “I suppose you need some more potions.”

“That lovely mint one,” Jaskier sighed, yawning and leaning in fully to Geralt’s side.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Yennefer said, glowering at Geralt before turning and storming away.

Geralt drank the last of Jaskier’s ale with a pointed glare at the sorceress’ retreating back. He knew it was inevitable that he was going on the hunt now, Jaskier would go without him and he couldn’t let his bard get injured, but he could still tell the old man the lines he would not cross.

“I don’t kill dragons,” Geralt reminded Borch, “They’re sentient, and they don’t hurt humans.”

“Splendid,” Borch smiled, take a bite from the bread that had been delivered to the table, “I only need you to keep me safe while we travel up the mountain. There are monsters up there that I would rather avoid.”

Geralt grunted, and looked down at a now sleeping Jaskier. The man was drooling, ever so slightly, on his armor. He would have to have words with him, but in the morning.

“First light,” Borch suggested, and Geralt nodded, picking Jaskier gently up and carrying him toward the stairs.

* * *

Jaskier nodded at Geralt, always the leader of the small group, as the witcher pulled ahead with the dwarves, leaving him to fall behind with Yennefer. His head wasn’t throbbing, but he could feel the uncomfortable side effects of the pain potion he had taken the day before.

“You weren’t supposed to drink the whole vial,” Yennefer sighed, passing another potion, a murky brown, to him.

“Trust me when I say you would have if you were there,” Jaskier sighed, gulping the oddly muddy tasting potion down.

The odd sensation of not pain quickly eased away, and he sighed in relief. He had woken this morning and tried to massage Geralt’s head and shoulders, sure that the ache was coming from him, before his witcher had glared him off and told him to get ready for their little trek.

“I know, Geralt mentioned what he had been fighting last night,” the sorceress eyed him sadly, “It would have killed anyone but a witcher the instant the venom touched their skin.”

“Damn near felt like it was killing me, and I wasn’t even there,” Jaskier agreed, “I was lucky Borch was there to fetch the potion for me.”

“You need to tell Geralt,” Yennefer snapped, “This is getting worse.”

Yennefer paused, grabbing Jaskier’s face and searching his eyes. Jaskier smiled, opening wider and letting her in. He knew what she was looking for, and there was no fighting her on it. He had known it for ages now.

His fading was becoming worse. He could feel his little soul strand withering as it tried to work itself into Geralt’s. He knew it wasn’t healthy, but none of this was. It was a miracle the witcher hadn’t died and taken his gift by now in the first place.

“You’re almost not there anymore,” Yennefer confirmed, sadly, “Just a ghost.”

“A ghost with breath yet is a ghost with a gift still,” Jaskier smiled.

Yennefer growled at him and stormed ahead, and Jaskier just rolled his eyes. She would be mad at him, and probably take it out on poor Geralt. Geralt, who would glare and bite back, and Jaskier would laugh at their antics. They were like tiny children fighting over a piece of candy at times.

“She’s right, you know,” Borch said, dropping in beside him with a sad smile on his face.

“I know, I told her first,” Jaskier replied.

And it was true. He had known for years about what was happening. Had probably started happening the day he had met the witcher in person. But he wouldn’t trade a moment of his life for the world.

“You were young, then, when you were,” Borch glanced ahead at the bickering Yennefer and Geralt, “Tied?”

Jaskier let his eyes wander toward the trees and bit his lip. This man, a stranger traveling with warriors from a distant land, knew more about his family’s magic than anyone he had ever met. And, with a glance, could see his soul.

The bard was flighty and cheerful, but he wasn’t an idiot.

“I suppose I wouldn’t trust me either,” Borch smiled, “Where I came from, soul gifters were rare, and their gift of a second chance at life was a magnificent one. They would bind themselves only to one they found worthy, and it was a gift cherished between the two in open harmony.”

Jaskier snorted. He would have loved to have been raised to have that option. To have a normal childhood where he didn’t collapse in howling agony, wondering if that moment was going to be his last. To have chosen Geralt as his to give his gift to, rather than have to hide the choice that had been made without the both of them.

“My family sells us and binds us the day we are born,” Jaskier admitted, “Only the eldest goes unbound, to carry on the family line.”

Borch tripped over his feet, staring at Jaskier with widened eyes.

“By all the,” he hissed between clenched teeth, “Such a thing is unheard of! To do that to a child, it’s torture!”

Jaskier shrugged. It was true, he couldn’t deny it. Borch himself had fed him a pain killing potion just the day before. 

“And yet you love him.”

“My breath will be his gift,” Jaskier confirmed.

“I thought my breath smelled of onion,” Geralt said, dropping into step next to Jaskier.

Jaskier jumped, startled, and looked ahead at a glaring Yennefer and sighed. He didn’t want to imagine what Yennefer had said to drive his lover to the back of the pack. She had such a cutting way with words that he was impressed she hadn’t been a songstress in another life.

“Take care with your bard, witcher,” Borch said, “Don’t harm him more than you can spare.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at the older man as he walked ahead. He may have sworn not to tell Geralt, but, clearly, he had intentions to make things known no matter what. 

“Yennefer said your hair is a tangled mess that should be shaved off and used for fire fuel,” Jaskier said quickly, trying to derail the subject as Geralt turned to him.

Jaskier knew the conversation was coming. Geralt wasn’t an idiot, Jaskier had noticed him noticing things that shouldn’t happen. But he wanted to cling to the happiness of Geralt not knowing for a little longer. For forever if he could help it.

But his forever would be ending soon. 

“She rather implied that I was using you for your coin and tarnishing your golden future,” Geralt said wryly.

“You would be a horrible kept man,” Jaskier assured him with a grin, “You’d stab the furniture and frighten the court. It wouldn’t be worth it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, and Jaskier hurried up the trail to catch back up with the others.

His forever may be ending soon, but it still lingered at the edges of the day. He would enjoy it before the darkness tore it from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Jaskier, you know Yennefer would never say such things about Geralt's hair. That would mean she noticed it and cared, and her hair is so much better than his.
> 
> Although, for real, I actually kinda dislike the wig they used in the show. I can tell it's not the nicest of hair. I have hair to my hips (literally, I've had super long hair for most of my life, I actually dressed up as Sailor Moon for Halloween as a child and my hair was that long, although not blonde), and I know hair. The wig is... it is not soft, flowing, gorgeous hair. Or human, given from what I've seen.
> 
> I think about hair too much at times. It's what happens when you have long hair. You notice hair. A lot.


	13. Chapter 13

Jaskier laughed around a mouthful of hare as the knight scurried off into the brush to shit himself. They had all warned him not to eat the creature. Geralt had even given an especially enthusiastic grunt and glare, which should have been enough for anyone to take heed.

“Yen, you’ve got to be kidding,” Jaskier said, licking the grease from his fingers, “The man’s a buffoon.”

“And you’re one to talk,” Yen raised an eyebrow, glancing at Geralt.

Geralt glared back at her, and Jaskier could almost feel his ire rising to the surface. Jaskier rolled his eyes and slapped the witcher’s arm with a glare of his own. He knew the two didn’t see eye to eye, but they could at least be a little… silent around each other.

Geralt finished his share of the meat and stalked off, shooting one last glare at Yennefer.

“You and the witcher don’t see eye to eye,” Borch smiled at the sorceress, “Past lover?”

“I don’t like watching my friends hurt,” Yen replied icily, glaring at the bard.

“He doesn’t even know about the bond, Yen,” Jaskier sighed, tossing the bones in the fire, “Leave off.”

“The sorceress is right,” Borch spoke up, “To not tell him isn’t right. He needs to know that he holds your life in his hands.”

“I won’t deny him his life,” Jaskier snapped, “He’s a witcher. To ask him to not protect people would be like asking me not to breathe!”

“And when you die because he wasn’t careful,” Yennefer demanded, “When he’s clutching your corpse to his chest and _doesn’t understand_ , what then!?”

“It won’t come to that,” Jaskier growled, “I’ve lived longer than any child in my family for generations! That should be proof enough!”

“You use pain potions that should be strong enough to knock ten men out, and then sit there and giggle,” Yennefer pointed out.

“Then don’t brew them so strong!” Jaskier nearly shouted.

“He loves you, soul gifter,” Borch said, his calm voice interrupting the argument, “And he will blame himself when he has a second life and finds you are the one that gave it to him.”

“I love him, I would give anything for him,” Jaskier said, tears pricking in his eyes.

“He doesn’t want your life,” Borch pointed out, “He wants you. Though I don’t think either of you realize that he is taking your life with each passing day.”

“Is that why his soul is,” Yennefer waved her hand, searching for the words.

“Fading,” Borch supplied, “Yes. Jaskier was bound too young, he never knew how to keep his soul independent of the bond. His soul thinks it’s a part of his witcher’s, and is trying to merge with it once more.”

“I’ll die no matter what,” Jaskier said miserably, glaring at the two others across the fire.

“Not for a while,” Borch shrugged his shoulders, “Just fade. But I’m just an old man, I’m hardly an expert at such things.”

Jaskier stood, sick of the never ending argument he and Yen inevitably ended up in every time they met. He knew she was right, but it was just never the right time. Never could be. After the dragon hunt, he told himself. When they were done with this, he would sit down and tell Geralt. Warn him what was coming. Prepare him for the inevitable.

“Jaskier,” Yen sighed, looking up at her friend.

“I’ll tell him soon, Yen, I promise,” Jaskier reassured her with a tired smile.

Yennefer nodded, and turned toward Borch. Jaskier snorted as he wandered toward where Geralt had set up their tent and Yen began to grill the old man. She was like a fox on a mission when she caught the scent of knowledge that she thought she needed.

And he didn’t feel sorry for the old man at all.

* * *

Geralt turned as he heard Jaskier shouting and sighed. Apparently Yennefer had turned her words on his bard as well, and it had not gone well. He knew she was right, she shouldn’t be restocking potions for a witcher _and_ a bard, but he wasn’t sure how to approach the matter.

Was he dying? Was it a curse?

He could feel his heart lurch at the thought, even though he knew it was inevitable. One day his lover would be old and gray and pass, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He just wanted a few more years to cling to, before destiny was cruel enough to ruin the fleeting happiness he found with Jaskier.

He looked up as Jaskier stomped into view, still angry. 

“Lover’s quarrel,” Geralt asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Only if you don’t hold me,” Jaskier sighed, slipping beneath the canvas cover that made up their tent and removing his doublet.

Geralt lay down and pulled the other man close. He frowned, burying his nose in his hair and smelling. He knew the dry, earthy scent of Jaskier by heart. Had laid next to it, sleeping, breathing it in, for years. But now it was almost… washed away. Like it had been soaked and let dry in the sun, and was a fading color.

He pulled Jaskier closer, ignoring the other man as he squirmed in his arms, and smelled his neck, finding the same thing, and his chest as well. Scents, a person’s natural scent, didn’t fade away like this.

And then he remembered what he had heard Jaskier distantly shouting at Yennefer.

She shouldn’t brew her potions so strong.

Geralt swallowed, the pieces adding up about her accusations. Years of her anger finally making sense.

“Is it because of me,” Geralt asked, sitting up at staring down at the blinking bard.

“Well, you are a handsome man that was just molesting me,” Jaskier grinned.

The grin dropped when Geralt swallowed and stared down at his hands. The bard liked it rough. Rougher than even Geralt felt was safe at times, but he never had it in himself to actually deny the other man. Not when they were in bed and he was willing.

Maybe it was too much? Maybe Jaskier was afraid to say something?

He shook his head. No, he had never smelled fear from Jaskier, not fear of Geralt. But maybe he hadn’t noticed, caught in the moment?

“Geralt,” Jaskier sat up, taking the witcher’s hands in his own, “Talk to me, what’s wrong?”

“The potions. You keep taking them, stronger and stronger,” Geralt growled, taking Jaskier’s face in his hands and searching.

His eyes dilating abnormally. It must be clear of his system by now. But, if he tried very hard, he could almost taste the brief whiff of mint that lingered around him.

Jaskier swallowed.

“I’m hurting you,” Geralt growled, his hands drawn back like Jaskier’s skin was fire, “I told you it wasn’t safe! I’m too strong, it’s-”

“No!” Jaskier nearly shouted, “You’re not, I promise.”

“And if I strip you now, what will I see,” Geralt snapped, “ _My hands_ on your skin! Maybe worse!”

Geralt stormed from the tent, not knowing what to do. He was trained to hold up a sword and fight monsters with violence! But how could he do that when _he_ had become the monster!? He was hurting the man he loved just by being near him!

“No, it’s not like that, I promise,” Jaskier pleaded, chasing after him.

“Yennefer has been harping on about it for years, and even Borch sees it,” Geralt turned on Jaskier with a growl, “Can you swear to me it has nothing to do with me?”

Jaskier stared at him, eyes wide.

“No,” Geralt snapped, “Because it is! How strong was the last potion? Witcher potions will kill humans!”

“It wasn’t a-”

“And next time, if it isn’t strong enough!?” Geralt said, trying to avoid Jaskier’s hands.

“I won’t use the potions anymore, I promise,” Jaskier begged, finally latching on to Geralt’s arm and refusing to let go, “I won’t touch a drop without your permission, I swear!”

Geralt stared at him, at the tears running down his face, and swore. He was damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. He couldn’t stand to make him suffer, to see him crying all because of him. Jaskier had made him better than the monster he had been before.

“I don’t care about the damn potions,” Geralt said, bringing the bard into a crushing hug, “Just don’t let me hurt you anymore.”

Jaskier stayed silent in his arms, and Geralt closed his eyes. 

Witchers didn’t cry.

Just as they didn’t care.

He clung tightly to Jaskier, trying not to dream of crushing his frail body in his grip, and failed miserably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: something's wrong
> 
> Jaskier: nothings wrong, forget everything you heard!
> 
> Geralt: There's something wrong with our sex life
> 
> Jaskier: ... and that was not the conclusion I thought you were going to come to.
> 
> But hey, at least Geralt is picking up on the bricks that are dropping from the sky and landing on his head!


	14. Chapter 14

Jaskier snuggled closer in Geralt’s arms, the cool mountain air nipping a little too closely at him. The conveniences of a witcher, he smiled to himself, always warm. Though not as soft as a lovely feather bed, but doable.

His eyes shot open as Geralt’s arms disappeared and the witcher was out of the tent, nearly shaking.

Jaskier groaned. He had forgotten about the argument while he had been asleep, forgotten that Geralt had become convinced that he was hurting him. He bit his lip, after the dragon hunt was finished, he promised himself. Once they were back at the inn he would sit down and explain everything.

Maybe then he could convince Geralt to take it easy for a few years, to enjoy his life instead of suffering through it, convinced that it was his destiny to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He stumbled out to find Geralt nowhere in sight, and sighed. He hadn’t gone far, but it was probably best to let him brood. Let him hit stone, and then talk him back down into understanding that he wasn’t doing anything wrong, hadn’t done anything wrong, and had never hurt him.

Not intentionally, anyway. 

Yarpin’s swearing interrupted his train of thought, and he came running to stop and nearly vomit.

There was the knight Yennefer was traveling with, his trousers down and his throat slit, collapsed at the bottom of a small cliff.

“That is horrendous,” Jaskier said, spitting in the bushes as Geralt emerged from the forest, knife in hand.

“He was an ass,” Yarpin agreed, “But no man deserves that.”

Yennefer just glared furiously at the corpse, and Jaskier felt rather sorry for the man. Had he still been alive, he was sure his friend would have killed him again for causing her some sort of inconvenience. No one crossed Yen, in his experience, and profited well from it.

“Fuck,” Geralt agreed, siding closer to Jaskier and looking around.

Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“The Reavers left sometime in the night,” she spat, turning from the corpse and marching back toward camp, “They’re trying to get to the dragon first.”

“Fuck if I’ll let some Reavers get my reward!” Yarpin growled, “It’s bad enough that Nilfgaard is stomping their way north!”

Jaskier tripped and swallowed.

“Nilfgaard’s a joke,” Yennefer snorted, “All blow and no show.”

Ciri, Jaskier thought, looking over at a still storming Geralt, Ciri could be in danger. He would have to convince his white wolf to take her. She wouldn’t be safe, not if Nilfgaard was marching north. 

“Not anymore they’re not,” Yarpin argued.

“Perhaps a warning to take to heart,” Borch said as they approached the morning fire, already calmly warming his hands, “Strange times bring strange events.”

“The only thing I’m taking to heart is not letting any of those fucking Reavers claim my prize,” Yarpin snapped, “My people have mined these hills for generations, there’s an old shortcut we know.”

“Then let us set forth,” Borch said with a smile, quickly stomping out the fire without a care.

“Shit, fire,” Jaskier said, rushing to check on the older man only to be held back by Geralt, “Geralt, he’s-”

“I’m fine, young bard,” Borch said, “Good boots do a lot more than you think.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, and Jaskier leaned against him in relief. He had packed enough burn ointments for Geralt, but he hadn’t thought to bring enough for everyone. Especially if they were running around and stomping in fires.

He needed to get Geralt boots like that. Fireproof was certainly worth it.

“Let’s go,” Geralt said, and Jaskier followed him to pack and grab their things.

* * *

Geralt held Jaskier’s arm before his bard could follow the sorceress onto the dwarves’ hidden trail. He glanced down the mountain, and then back at Jaskier. He shouldn’t let him go. He should tell him to walk back down to the inn, where it was safe, but Jaskier just smiled and pulled away.

Geralt grit his teeth and followed, his steps careful, and glanced back at Borch and the two warriors, Tea and Vea, following close behind. He didn’t like this, this screamed disaster. With every step the boards shook, and he could feel the wind trying to shake them from the side of the mountains.

“Quite the view,” Jaskier said, glancing back, “Almost a shame I’m a poet, not a painter.”

“Mind your feet,” Geralt growled, watching Jaskier’s boot struggle with a particularly worn board.

Wind screamed by and Geralt felt the board behind him come loose. Borch, Tea, and Vea all clung to it helplessly, and Geralt’s eyes went wide. No, dammit! They were so close, just another day and they would be at the top of the mountain.

“Fuck,” Geralt growled, grabbing hold of the chains, his arms straining.

“It’s okay,” Borch smiled up at him.

His eyes went wide as the old man let go, and warriors following him as they plummeted toward their deaths.

He was breathing heavily, his arm still wrapped around the chain, staring into the clouds after them. Just a few more minutes, and he could have pulled them to safety. Just a few more minutes.

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s hand was on his arm, his voice soft, “We need to go.”

Geralt let the chain drop, turning carefully and looking at the bard.

There were tears in his eyes, and Geralt could feel him resisting the urge to touch him. It wasn’t safe. Not here. Borch had showed them that.

“Go,” Geralt said, nodding forward.

Jaskier nodded, his feet and hands careful as they continued their journey.

* * *

Jaskier watched the witcher slump down on a rock, watching the sun set, and wiped the tears from his eyes. It didn’t take a soul bond to feel the other man’s pain. Geralt, past his gruff exterior, was a good man. He sacrificed everything to save people, always. And to stand there and watch Borch and the others simply let go and die?

His heart ached for him.

He sat down behind him, massaging gently at the back of his neck, tight from stress and fury. It had been a long journey for his lover, and he was partially to blame for some of the issues. But he could comfort him, help try to make the passing a little easier.

“When all this is done,” Jaskier sighed, threading his fingers through Geralt’s hair, “We can go away. Just take Ciri and see the ocean. Live in a tiny little town on the coast, where the winter is stormy and the summers beautiful.”

“Hmm,” Geralt nodded, leaning back into Jaskier, eyes closed, “Who’s Ciri?”

Jaskier swallowed. He hadn’t meant to mention the little girl that was destined for the witcher. But he couldn’t imagine a life without her and him together. He could see her chasing down Geralt with a stick, pretending he was some foul monster to be vanquished, and saving some straw woven damsel. Flower crowns and little fish caught in tiny fingers as Geralt finally woke up relaxed and happy.

“Pavetta’s daughter,” Jaskier finally answered, “Your child surprise.”

Geralt froze in Jaskier’s arms, his eyes popping open as he turned to glare at Jaskier. Jaskier ducked his head down. He knew Geralt had been avoiding the girl, and Jaskier knew Geralt would be angry if he knew that he had wintered in Cintra’s court on numerous occasions. Just to be near the girl, to see her, to watch her fiery spirit taking hold.

“My life-”

“Your life is what you make of it,” Jaskier said, “I follow you without issue, happily so. And there’s nothing that says you can’t take a few years to yourself and watch her grow.”

“Witchers don’t raise children,” Geralt snapped, “We raise witchers! Would you doom her to a life like mine!? Rocks thrown and names hissed, knowing nothing but the hardships of life!?”

Geralt stood, his fists clenching, and Jaskier longed to reach out to him. But he kept back, watching his white wolf nearly howling angrily into the wind at the life that was tossed before him but he couldn’t have. And Jaskier knew it. Knew that Geralt would never be able to settle, was never meant to settle.

He would die with a sword in his hands, and be happy for it.

“Not forever,” Jaskier stood, “Just a few years. Enough for her to protect herself. If Nilfgaard is coming-”

“If Nilfgaard is coming then her grandmother will protect her,” Geralt snapped, his eyes wild, “And better than I ever could!”

“If Nilfgaard is coming, then she deserves every chance she can get,” Jaskier said, “She’s a tiny thing, but precious.”

“You’ve met her,” Geralt accused, his finger slamming into the bard’s chest.

“I’ve wintered in the Cintran court several times,” Jaskier admitted, “She’s fond of stories of you.”

“She is not meant-”

“She is meant for you,” Jaskier promised, pulling Geralt into his arms, “She always has been.”

“I can’t have that life.”

“You already do,” Jaskier told him.

Geralt shuddered, and Jaskier could feel a tear or two on his shoulder. But he just closed his eyes and held the man close. They had a life together already. Thready and threadbare, and patched with lies, but it was theirs. It was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: so...
> 
> Geralt: *grumbles*
> 
> Borch: _And I'm free, free falling!_
> 
> Am I the only one that got that song stuck in their head during that scene? Because I totally did and started giggling.


	15. Chapter 15

“You’re sneaking off,” Yennefer quipped, interrupting Geralt as he was trying to slip away as pink fanned through the horizon, “That’s unlike you.”

Geralt turned to glare at her, but had nothing to say. He was sneaking off, that was true, but it was for the best. No matter how Jaskier wanted to see a dragon, Geralt needed to keep him safe. And he wasn’t going to be safe if he followed him the rest of the way up the mountain into the fiery jaws of an angry dragon.

“Keep marching,” Yennefer sighed, motioning forward.

“I don’t need you,” Geralt growled softly, trying to keep his voice low.

“No, but if anything happens to you Jaskier’ll have my head,” Yennefer said, “Besides, the dwarves aren’t the only ones with a hat in the ring.”

Geralt frowned, glancing back at the camp and noticing the uncanny calmness of the sleeping dwarves with a raised eyebrow. Yennefer just shrugged and continued forward up the path as gold began to dust across the dappling pink of the horizon. Morning was coming, and he wanted this finished before Jaskier awoke to find himself cold and alone.

“How long has he,” Geralt paused, glancing at the sorceress, “The potions.”

“He’s usually smart enough to only take a sip,” Yennefer explained, irritated, “But downing a whole vial won’t kill him.”

“They’re not witcher potions,” Geralt was relieved.

Witcher potions were brewed to keep him alive, but could kill a normal human. Not everyone believed the tales, though, and he had heard tales of fools that died in hideous ways with witcher vials at their lips.

“No, but they are strong.”

Geralt growled. This was his fault. He was hurting his bard, and he had resorted to asking for pain potions from a sorceress rather than confronting him. He would have to keep a more careful watch over his lover, take things more gently, to prevent this in the future.

Because there would be a future.

“Geralt,” Yennefer sighed, looking back at him, “It’s not your fault.”

“You’ve implied otherwise for several years,” Geralt shot back.

“Talk to him,” Yennefer said, and her glare clearly ended the conversation.

You’re hurting him. Don’t hurt him. Talk to him. Blast sorceress’ and their double speak! This was why he avoided mages, ask them a clear question and they will paint a picture so muddy the riverbed wouldn’t know what to do with it. 

He continued up the mountain, refusing to look at the woman, and hoping that all they found was an angry wyvern in a cave. He didn’t like to Borch; he didn’t kill dragons. They were sentient, and seldom came nearer to human settlements than to make off with livestock.

Humans ate livestock as well, they would survive with a little competition. 

What he found in the cave, on the other hand, was startling. 

“You’re dead,” Geralt growled at Tea and Vea as they emerged from the shadows.

“So is the dragon,” Yennefer cursed next to him.

“Witcher,” a voice boomed above him, and Geralt drew his sword as a magnificent golden beast came down through the rood of the cave.

Jaskier would have loved to see this, he thought. The dragon was beautiful.

“Borch,” Geralt said, recognizing the voice.

“I am sorry for the deception, but it was quite necessary. The egg is too fragile to move, but the mother drew too much attention.”

“She was protecting her baby,” Yennefer whispered in awe.

“Poor thing,” Jaskier’s voice piped up from behind, and Geralt turned with a glare.

“I left you sleeping!”

“You left me cold on a mountain with no fire,” Jaskier sniffed, “And to not see this amazing dragon in all his glory?”

“It’s too dangerous,” Geralt growled, stalking up to Jaskier.

“He’s right, young bardling,” Borch said, his mouth smoking, “Others are after this precious hatchling, and they will not hesitate to cut through you to get to them.”

Jaskier nodded, backing away from the mouth of the cave as Reavers appeared, steel drawn.

“Dammit, protect the egg,” Geralt growled, racing forward to meet steel with his own.

Geralt watched Jaskier disappear behind the dragon, his knife drawn, and let himself sink into battle. Borch could protect Jaskier and the egg, he could protect them. It would all end well, he swore to himself. And then he was going to throttle his bard for following him into danger once again.

He growled as one of the Reavers threw sand in his eyes, blinding him momentarily. He concentrated on his other senses, but the pure sound of chaos echoed through the cave, and he couldn’t deflect the blade until it was too late.

It sank into his chest, and he let out a gargled hiss, driving his own sword forward and relishing the feel as it sank into the other man’s neck. He blinked, wiping at his eyes, and ducked as Yennefer sent another two men flying against the back wall with an angry shout.

Yennefer pulled him down as flames shot forth, and the cave came to a burned silence.

“Shit,” Yennefer hissed as she stared at the sword that was still halfway out his chest, glancing to her side.

He followed her gaze and his heart sank. Jaskier was slumped next to the egg, staring back at him, his eyes wide, his breaths coming in strangled pants. When had someone gotten through to his lover? Why hadn’t Borch stopped them!?

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, trying to push the sorceress off of him, “Jask’ first!”

“He’ll be fine,” Yennefer glared, tearing off a strip of her dress, not even glancing up as Borch approached, human now, concerned.

“It’s not through the back,” Yennefer said, “Can you pull it out while I stop the bleeding?”

“I can,” Borch assured her, his hands gentle on the blade.

Geralt continued to stare at Jaskier. Why weren’t they helping him!? Tea and Vea were merely standing there, guarding the egg while his bard lay on the ground, in agony. Was he dying? Was he too far gone to save!? 

Couldn’t they at least offer him some comfort?

“Save him,” Geralt said, looking up at Yennefer, “Please!”

“I’ll give him some pain potion,” Yennefer promised, “Stay still!”

“Jaskier first,” Geralt growled, trying to push the sorceress away.

Geralt could smell the heady stench of Jaskier’s pain saturating the cavern, but no one moved toward him. 

“Stay still or you’ll hurt him even worse,” Yennefer hissed, trying to hold a struggling Geralt down.

Jaskier’s eyes were drooped, and Geralt could feel his patient, controlled breaths from here. In and out, in and out, in the unnatural pattern he always slipped into. His medallion was throbbing against his chest in the same pattern, and Geralt stared in horror as Jaskier simply smiled at him.

Geralt grit his teeth as Jaskier let out a pained gasp, Borch pulling the sword free and Yennefer applying pressure while muttering under her breath. He could feel the magic stitching its was through him, and he closed his eyes. Borch’s steps echoed away, and Geralt could hear him muttering to his bard.

Please, let him be alright, he begged silently. He didn’t want to open his eyes to find his lover dead.

“Be gentle with the wound for a few days,” Yennefer panted, slumping back on her ass, “But you should be fine.”

Geralt sat up, ignoring the fiery agony that lanced through his chest, and limped over toward where Borch was holding a vial to Jaskier’s mouth. Mint crashed against his senses, and he sighed.

More pain potion.

But no attempts at healing.

“How could I hurt him worse,” Geralt asked with a strangled voice.

Jaskier was clutching at his chest, exactly where his wound had been.

Jaskier always knew where he was hurt. Knew every wound. Knew every damn inconvenience down to a pebble in his boot. And he always knew what potions he needed. Always.

Geralt growled, rising to his feet and storming over to where Jaskier sat. Borch stepped away, and Geralt kneeled, grabbing Jaskier’s face and staring into his eyes. The magic was still there, his medallion humming, and he glared.

“What did you do,” Geralt demanded.

“Nothing,” Jaskier smiled wanly, trying to straighten, “Just a cramp, should have stretched first is all.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Geralt growled, continuing to search the other man’s face, “How long have you been feeling my pain?”

Jaskier’s lip quivered, and he glared up at Yennefer.

“He would find out eventually, bardling,” Borch said, “The secret was never yours to keep forever.”

Geralt turned to glare at the old man.

“Am I the only one that didn’t know!?”

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s hand was limp on Geralt’s arm, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out, not like this.”

Borch took Yennefer and guided her away, and Geralt turned his full attention on his bard. There were tears in his eyes, and Geralt could nearly feel the numbing of the potion working its way through his body. How much had Borch given him? 

How much of his own pain was he feeling?

“Tell me,” Geralt demanded softly, “Explain it.”

“My family name is Pankratz,” Jaskier admitted, and Geralt shook his head.

He knew it wasn’t a type of monster, but he rarely cared to keep track of court names. They were of no use to him. Coin was coin, no matter the title it came from.

“We have a type of magic. Our souls can be bound to another,” Jaskier’s shoulders drooped as he turned away, staring at the floor, “We feel their pain. Every blow, and cut, every stubbed toe.”

Geralt growled. 

“And when the one we’re bonded to dies, we give our last breath as a gift so they can live again.”

“No,” Geralt nearly shouted, shaking his lover, “Why would you do that!?”

“I was bound to you the day I was born,” Jaskier admitted, tears streaming down his face as he looked up at Geralt, “I don’t regret it. Not a moment. I love you.”

Geralt pulled away in horror as Jaskier rose weakly to his feet, wobbling unsteadily. Geralt grabbed him out of habit, and Jaskier collapsed into his arms, trying to draw him into a kiss. Geralt gnashed his teeth, pulling back, trying to step away but finding his arms still full of a pleading bard.

“It’s not your fault,” Jaskier pleaded.

“Your entire life,” Geralt growled, trying not to think of every scar that traced his body.

Every hunt, every wound. Jaskier would have known nothing but pain and agony his entire life. Not a single moment left happy. No wonder he was desperate for Yennefer’s pain potions, Geralt couldn’t imagine how he was able to stand, let alone continue following him.

Jaskier should hate him. He took his life and turned it inside out, into a screaming mockery of what it should have been.

“I love you,” Jaskier sobbed, and Geralt backed away, letting the other man drop to the ground.

“I can’t,” Geralt swallowed, staring down at Jaskier in horror, “I’ve cursed your entire life.”

“It’s not like tha-”

“Break the bond,” Geralt demanded, sinking to his kneed in front of his bard, pleading, “Break it. I don’t want you to give your life to me. I don’t need it. None of it.”

“I can’t,” Jaskier admitted.

Jaskier stared at him sorrowfully, and Geralt grabbed him, pulling him into a desperate kiss, all teeth and anger and tears.

But he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t stand there and watch every new scar lance up Jaskier’s body in agony. Couldn’t know that he was his own lover’s curse.

Geralt stormed away, leaving Jaskier a shaking, sobbing heap on the ground, and stormed past where Yennefer and Borch were guarding the outside of the cave.

Yennefer grabbed his arm angrily, and Borch disappeared inside.

“What are you doing,” she hissed.

“Take care of him,” Geralt asked, glancing back at his crying bard.

He couldn’t stand to see him like this. But he couldn’t be near him, not now. He was furious that the other man had never told him, never warned him of what he was doing. He should have been more careful. Should have been more cautious. Would have been, if he had only known.

He carried Jaskier’s very life in his hands with each risked breath. He could have killed the man he loved without knowing.

He couldn’t be near him. His heart cracked, and he turned away, shaking free of Yennefer’s hold and beginning the cold march down the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: *breaks Jaskier's heart and his own at the same time*
> 
> Everyone: *glares*
> 
> And, unfortunately, I am going to have to turn on moderated comments. Nearly all you reviewers are great, I swear! But one of my other stories, which has a sad ending, pissed off some twerps with too much spare time on their hands. And, quite frankly, I don't have the time spare to go through and delete every screwed up comment they're leaving demanding I rewrite an old fic to a happy ending. So yeah, just warning you guys of that. You're all great, cookies for everyone! Except those two of you who need to go sit in the time out chair!


	16. Chapter 16

Jaskier stared at his hands, feeling the tears streaming down his face, and concentrated on the only thing that had ever stayed true to him through life: his breathing.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

He continued to breathe as Yennefer took him by the hand and led him back to camp, leaving Borch and an irate group of dwarves behind. He continued to breathe as she started a fire and wrapped him in furs and blankets. 

He continued to breathe as she forced a warm mug into his hand.

He continued to breathe until the mug had gone cold, and daylight had burned away into the encroaching darkness of another frigid night.

Yennefer was sitting across from him when he finally looked up, taking a sip of the bitter liquid in his mug, and swallowing gratefully.

“It hurts,” Jaskier hiccuped, clenching the mug in his hands.

He could feel his soul stretching, torn and tattered but still attached, as Geralt continued his trek down the mountain. This was worse than every winter morning he had ever suffered through, when Geralt inevitably fled north to hibernate in some frost abode.

It was too early to head north, now. But maybe he would. He would be safe there, if Nilfgaard was truly attacking to the south.

“Do you need more pain potion,” Yennefer asked, reaching into her skirts for another vial.

Jaskier just shook his head. 

“He managed to get another rock in his boot,” Jaskier laughed, hiccuping and wiping at his tears, “The fool never listens to me. He has to have a hole somewhere in that boot to get them so often.”

“Oh Jaskier,” Yennefer sighed, sitting next to him and holding him close, “You’re going to be alright.”

“No I won’t,” Jaskier admitted, staring into the flames, “But thanks for thinking it.”

“What will we do now?” Yennefer asked.

Go after Geralt, his soul screamed. Run after him, tackle him, tie him up and never let him go again. Trap him in a prison of threads both inside and out.

But Jaskier couldn’t do that. He loved his other. He had cherished their every moment together. To trap him would be to destroy him, and everything he loved about him. He’d rather fling himself off a cliff than destroy his white wolf, no matter how much his heart ached for him.

“Ciri is in danger, and he won’t come for her until it’s too late,” Jaskier said, glancing at his friend.

He knew what he was asking of her. Calanthe would never let her granddaughter willingly come to harm. But she was also a thick skulled bigot who had doomed her kingdom again and again over the years. She slaughtered those who should stand by her side, and left herself woefully open for destruction.

And there was no one left who would come to save little Ciri if Geralt was too stubborn to.

No one but him. A simple bard.

“Jaskier, Nilfgaard is just a run down-”

“She’s his child,” Jaskier snapped angrily, “I won’t see her harmed!”

“Jaskier-”

“Yen, I don’t have anything else left,” Jaskier admitted, looking at her sadly.

His entire life had become defined by Geralt, by being near him, by waiting to be near him again. From the very beginning all he had ever been was an insurance policy, at least now he could follow through with that and save his child. Even if Geralt wanted nothing to do with his child surprise.

“In the morning, then,” Yennefer relented, “After food. And sleep.”

Jaskier nodded, leaning on her and letting his eyes drift shut.

The pain in his soul was exhausting.

* * *

Roach snorted as Geralt approached, his legs aching. He hadn’t stopped to rest after he fled from Jaskier’s tears, and still couldn’t truly figure out what he should do. The man had _lied_ to him. 

Roach snuffled at his hair, and pushed him back toward the path he had just stumbled down.

“He’s not coming,” Geralt grouched, pushing her head away as he checked the bags and tack.

Roach head butted him again, and he just pushed her away.

She was greedy for treats, that was all, he told himself. Jaskier always spoiled her, and now this was the consequence. He should have put a stop to it from the beginning. Should have put a stop to a lot of things from the beginning, really.

He should have never let Jaskier travel with him in the first place.

Roach was more insistent this time, and Geralt glared at her.

Roach did not look impressed.

“He can’t travel with us,” Geralt snapped at her, “It’s too dangerous.”

But it wasn’t. Not really. If what his bard had said was true, then Geralt traveling the Path was the real danger. His hands quivered as he started gathering equipment to prepare to ride. Every blow had smashed across his lover’s body. Every cut and bruise.

There was no staying safe from that. Geralt couldn’t abandon what he was, people needed him. People would die without him.

Geralt swallowed as he tightened Roach’s straps with practiced care.

Jaskier didn’t hate him. 

His bard had suffered his entire life, and all he could do was love him. He never asked him for anything, he didn’t plead him off a single contract, no matter how dangerous.

_Save Ciri._

One thing. He could do one thing for his bard. He could find the girl, his cursed child surprise, and he could keep her safe. She wouldn’t be safe with him, but there were others. There was Jaskier. 

He mounted, motioning Roach back down the trail.

Jaskier wanted to see the ocean. He could hide his bard and the child there, wait until the danger of Nilfgaard had passed, and figured out what to do from there. Find a way to break Jaskier’s curse, because there had to be a way. He refused to believe there wasn’t one.

And kill whoever bonded them in the first place. Because he could imagine no one but a monster would bind an infant to him and subject them to his painful, waking hell every day of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roach: where's the bard, I want a snack
> 
> Geralt: *deep seated emotional constipation*
> 
> Roach: yeah, you're a moron, where's the bard, I want a snack
> 
> Because, truly, Roach is the best. Always.
> 
> Also, what's really annoying? I'm reading all the stories of people that are prepping for Covid-19 in the States by buying frozen pizza... and I'm jealous. I miss American frozen pizza so damn much. We don't have frozen pizza like that here in Japan. At all. And it just makes me sad when I'm tired after a long day of work and I just want to throw a damn frozen pizza in the oven instead of actually having to cook.
> 
> Stay safe out there, everyone! And, if you can, enjoy a frozen pizza for me.


	17. Chapter 17

Jaskier sat in the back of the tavern, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, concentrating on his breathing. He wanted to get up and strangle the bard that was butchering one of his songs with a lute string, the man couldn’t keep time to save his life. He lingered on the wrong notes and stumbled as he raced over slower ones.

It was no wonder people glowered and threw food at bards by instinct if this was what they had to put up with the majority of the time. 

He blinked as Yennefer slid into the booth, and slid the half filled vial over to him.

Jaskier downed it immediately without a second thought.

His soul was frayed, had been for years, but now, with Geralt so far away, he could barely stand for the pulsing pain. His soul felt like it was shredding every moment of the day. An agony of every poison Geralt had ever felt rising and falling like crashing waves on a frigid cliff.

Only Yennefer’s potions were keeping him steady and conscious these days. And, even then, she was being careful with the doses. Too much would kill him, she eventually admitted. The potion was never meant to be more than an occasional stop gap. Daily doses would be too much for his human body if he wasn’t careful.

And it still wasn’t enough to do much more than shave an edge off the throbbing reminder that he would never be whole again.

“Should have used a portal,” Jaskier said wearily.

And they had, originally. They had gotten off the mountain and to the edge of Cintra before Yennefer admitted that their passage was blocked. They would have to travel the old fashioned way: by horse. Foot was out of the question, Jaskier couldn’t go more than an hour or two before he was too exhausted to continue.

But nearing the capitol, nearing Ciri, had strengthened his lagging reserves. Her soul shone bright and strong, and now, only a day away, he could lean on it. Use it to wrap his withered threads around, and rest. She wasn’t Geralt, but she was enough.

She was enough to keep him alive until Geralt needed his gift.

“Is the pain getting worse,” she asked, concerned.

Jaskier had to smile at that. Any worse and he would be unconscious, he was sure. Dead to the world, waiting for the day Geralt needed him. He would only lament that he never saw him one last time. At least he told him he loved him. He wanted to make sure Geralt knew, knew that, whatever happened, he was loved.

“If I lingered a week, it almost feels as if he would ride in here, full of himself and brooding.”

“He’s coming this way,” Yennefer honestly sounded surprised.

Jaskier snorted.

“No. Yes. In this direction, but he avoids Cintra,” he explained, “Has since Pavetta’s wedding. He’ll turn north or south soon enough.”

“He could come for the girl,” Yen replied.

“As likely as the day he would come for me,” Jaskier sighed, resisting the urge to throw something at the bard as he dropped out of tune and hit a high note where none should have been.

May his balls be trampled by a thousand cloven hooves! 

“You need rest,” Yen said wearily, wincing as the bard hit another high note.

“I need to defend my honor,” Jaskier snapped, rising still the same and following his friend up the stairs. 

The warped and twisted planks of the cheap tavern would barely block the noise, but anything was a blessing in comparison to suffering in the same room as it. He would have been able to convince Geralt to at least throw a knife to warn the man off. 

But, if Geralt had been here, with him still, it would have been him singing. And him collecting coins and ale, and encouraging another cheer. And he would have been happily leaning against Geralt up the stairs, and looking forward to sleeping draped across his warm, solid frame.

Jaskier bit his lip and slipped into the cold bed, alone, and rolled away from Yen. 

They would reach the castle in the morning. Close enough to nearly hear the tiny child demanding another song about the heroic witcher saving yet another maiden.

And he still didn’t know how they were going to save her, and live, while breaking Queen Calanthe’s heart.

* * *

The kitchens had not been how Jaskier had thought they would make their entrance. He had never doubted that he would never have been able to obtain an audience with the queen, he was a simple bard after all, but Yennefer. Yennefer was a mighty and powerful sorceress. She was… powerful. She knew people.

And now she was dressed like a kitchen maid, skulking in the shadows like a common thief.

Apparently she had decided not to even bother with letting anyone know she was here. Queen Calanthe was rather wrapped up in battle preparations, she had told him. Right now, the Lioness was furious and defensive. 

Jaskier hoped she at least listened to them before putting their heads on spikes.

“Next left,” Jaskier whispered, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.

He knew the castle well enough. Castles as old as this merely changed faces, but tradition kept everything else the same. And Ciri, it seemed, had kept the tradition of slipping into the tiny room where he liked to spend his winters resting.

It wasn’t the same with her as it was with Geralt. She didn’t beat as strongly in his soul as his former lover did. But she was there, creeping around the edges, poking and prodding and making herself known.

She was growing stronger now. Older, more powerful. Geralt was a fool if he thought he could escape his destiny. Especially when a child as stubborn as the little golden haired lion cub wanted it to come to pass.

The door opened silently, he blessed a well ordered staff, and there the child was, curled up in front of a small fire with a giant book. Fairy tales, he was sure. And, given her pouting glare, she was irate that, once again, things weren’t going her way.

Most likely a lack of unicorns. He found that had been a common complaint of hers.

“Ciri,” Jaskier whispered with a smile, and the girl’s head popped up like a rabbit.

“Jaskier,” she shrieked, running toward him, “Where’s your lute? I need a song, now! No one else sings a story as good as you! What are you doing here? You said you wouldn’t be back until the snow fell!”

He shot a glare at Yennefer as she stifled a laugh, and kneeled on the floor before the princess. He knew Yen could put her to sleep, but the use of magic could alert others, especially as the kingdom was awakening magical protections already. She needed to come with them of her own free will.

It would be easier that hauling a bundled body through the bowels of the keep anyway.

“Do you remember how I told you that you were tied to a magnificent destiny,” Jaskier asked.

“Yes, with the witcher Geralt! One day he will come for me, and we’ll have grand adventures together,” Ciri smiled, “Will there be unicorns? I want to see a unicorn!”

“I don’t know about unicorns,” Jaskier grinned, “But I do know adventures. And the time for yours has come to begin. But we need to leave now, in secret.”

“Okay,” Ciri bounced up and down in excitement, “I just need to tell-”

“No one can be told,” Jaskier apologized, “It’s too dangerous. Evil armies are approaching, and we must escape.”

“But grandmother-”

“Your grandmother already knows,” Yen said, looking down at the little girl with a sad smile, “Are you ready for your adventure, princess?”

Ciri bit her quivering lip, and Jaskier stood and held out his hand. She had been excited for this her entire life, but he knew how hard it was to leave home. And a home that was as magnificent as loving as hers would be a torture to turn and leave fading into the distance.

“I’m ready,” Ciri nodded, her eyes determined as she took his hand.

Yennefer turned, and the three fled into the darkness, nightmares of what was soon to come chasing on their heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, Ciri has joined the party! Sorry for lack of Geralt this chapter. Just imagine that he's smelling of horse and onion, and pissing Roach off by pressing her too hard to get to Cintra. And being damn lucky he hasn't been bit by her either.
> 
> And, as some know, I am a teacher in Japan. No, I do not get time off just because the schools are closed. The teachers are the ones disinfecting the schools. And, well, there's still paperwork to be done. Teachers always come in, no matter what's going on, even if all we do is just sit and chat and be bored because there's no point to being there.
> 
> There's nothing as hilarious as teachers playing multi level baseball in the middle of a typhoon because, even though there's a typhoon, teachers still have to show up at school.
> 
> So stay safe everyone and wash your damn hands! Sneeze into your elbows, don't wipe your nose with your wrist, and wearing a face mask prevents you from spreading germs!


	18. Chapter 18

Geralt held the back of his hand to his nose as he led Roach carefully through the massacre that had once been Cintra’s capitol. He had no fond memories of the city, but no one deserved to die like this. Brutalized and torn, burned without thought and forgotten by all but the survivors as the army continued their conquest north.

Queen Calanthe had not died on the battlefield, but of poison, trapped in her own quarters. Half her army had never shown to defend the country, still scattered and looking for the missing princess. He had heard the rumors. 

Hideous things whispered in the night. The lion cub had run, her mother’s gift giving her the gift of foresight, and she foresaw the end of the kingdom. That she was already captured and wed to Nilfgaard’s mad emperor. 

That Calanthe herself had forced poison down her throat and done away with her so that she would never lose the throne.

Calanthe had not been a kind ruler, and the survivors’ memory of her had not been kind in return. Rich, but unwise.

Geralt growled, staring up at the echoing ruins of the castle, clawing at the night’s pale sky. The girl was still alive, she _had_ to be. And he would find her.

He would find her, bring her to Jaskier, and keep them safe if it was the last thing he did. 

No, his fists clenched, he would keep them safe _no matter what_. He would not die. He would not kill his bard like that. He would live, and Jaskier would live happily with Ciri. Plans could come together after that, when he had them both, safe, somewhere else.

Anywhere else but these cursed lands.

He left Roach outside the castle walls and ventured in. He couldn’t track the girl without knowing where she had last been, and where she might be headed.

He hoped she ran north. He could almost feel a pull to the north. A steady, pulsing beat.

Jaskier was north.

* * *

Jaskier shivered in front of the fire in the early autumn wind, exhausted and dazed, and stared blankly into the flames. They had sold off all but Yen’s horse ages ago, and even then the old brute was good for nothing but carrying baggage.

Not that they had much baggage to spare between the three of them. Bedrolls, blankets, a little extra food. None of them carried their lives with them. Well, the girls didn’t, he reminded himself. He did. He kept his lute on his back and tried to pretend he was more luxurious than the scratchy woolen clothes the weather had finally forced him into.

Well, the weather and Yen kindly reminding him in a voice he did not dare disobey that they had secreted away the crown princess of Cintra and were trying not to stand out in a crowd. A bard in flamboyant silks rather dashed that picture into the dust.

Ciri’s hair had been cut short, and the grime of the road had done the rest to turn her into another awkward refugee. 

“Go sit next to him,” Yen said, breaking Jaskier’s train of thought as Ciri collapsed against his side, half asleep and quickly working her way to unconscious.

Jaskier smiled, pulling her close and wrapping his cloak around her shoulders. She was too young to be cold on the road. Her adventure wasn’t going as well as she had imagined it would back in the castle he was sure.

Three days head start had not been nearly enough time. Jaskier had hoped they would be safe long before Cintra fell. Yennefer kept her mouth shut, but he could see that she was just glad that they were still at least one step ahead.

They had both heard that the Nilfgaardian army was searching for the princess. There was no reason to search for her, the kingdom was theirs, unless there was more to the story than they knew. Yennefer had mentioned the possibility of power, her mother had certainly had it, but nothing more than that.

There hadn’t been time to investigate.

“What’s wrong,” Jaskier asked with a tired sigh as Ciri finally drifted off to sleep.

The little girl knew that there was trouble afoot, and she knew about the fall of the kingdom, but Jaskier was trying to keep the worst from her still. She would find out about the rest later, when they were settled somewhere safe and he could let her mourn her grandmother in peace. 

“I’ve been called,” Yen admitted, “Nilfgaard is advancing north and the mage council must decide what to do. I can’t sit back and do nothing, Jask, I need to make a stand. Nilfgaard must be stopped.”

Jaskier swallowed heavily and nodded.

She was right. This unending march of blood and torture needed to come to an end. The wave of refugees alone was going to destabilize northern kingdoms. With winter setting in soon, there would not be food enough to go around. It was probably part of Nilfgaard’s plan.

Cause havoc and conquer what they had not destroyed.

“I can leave you vials, but you need to continue north,” she said, and Jaskier continued to nod.

“Ciri should be enough, for now,” he reassured her.

And it was true. The little girl, though not Geralt, was strong enough that he could lean on her without suffering. Her thread was tied to Geralt with something stronger than mortal magic, and his soul could barely tell the difference some mornings, when he ached and longed for a man that would never be there again.

“In the mountains-”

“Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier said wanly.

Kaer Morhen, where the witchers wintered. Where the wolves howled and gathered in a pack to drink and train away the winter until it was safe to hunt monsters once more. Where Geralt had been raised and trained, and where he was undoubtedly headed. The stead stretch of north tingled along his spine, and he knew his witcher was headed that way.

Knew that it would not be a pleasant meeting when it came to pass.

But Ciri was more important than that now. She needed to be safe, and she was a witcher’s child surprise. No matter the politics, the witchers in Kaer Morhen would keep her safe. He could walk away without a care as long as the child could be protected from the ocean of darkness that was slowly creeping across the land after her.

“I’ll be gone in the morning,” Yen apologized, “But I’ll try to join you at Kaer Morhen when this is all over.”

Jaskier swallowed. He could survive on his own on the road, had certainly managed to whenever he had drifted away from Geralt over the years, but this was different. This was war. His best friend was setting off to fight an enemy that had leveled an entire kingdom without pause, and he didn’t want to be without her.

He didn’t want to be the one that had to save the princess, and get her to safety.

He wasn’t sure he could. He would have no warning when his last breath was gifted to Geralt. What if he died before he could get her to Kaer Morhen? What if she was left abandoned on the road, and Nilfgaard found her? Or worse?

Even he wasn’t so naive as to not know what could happen to little girls on their own in the wilderness.

“I trust you,” Yennefer reassured him, “You _will_ get Ciri to safety.”

“Come back safe,” Jaskier told her, trying not to cry, “Come back and save us when I can’t and things go to shit.”

“Only if you promise me to never sing another song about unicorns again,” Yen laughed wetly, and Jaskier nodded while wiping at his eyes.

No matter how rosy her cheeks or happy her dimples, even Yen had wanted to chuck the princess into the fire after the umpteenth request for a ballad about saving unicorns. The beasts had wearied the sorceress the first three times, but after that she had made a habit of slipping away to be anywhere else but nearby when Jaskier gave in. 

Jaskier had longed to join her, but his lute had never developed any skills in playing herself. 

“At Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier promised.

“At Kaer Morhen,” Yennefer agreed, shifting and standing.

Jaskier watcher her sleepily, noting that her rummaging through near empty packs was nothing more than biding time. They were never very good at goodbyes, and he would be sad in the morning to find her gone. But he had Ciri, and he would see this quest through.

He had two to breath for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus begins the quest where everyone is trying to save everyone in the most ass backwards way possible! It's great!
> 
> ... and kindergartens in Japan will not close. Because children under the age of ten are not as seriously affected by Covid-19, according to the announcement from the government the kindergarten got. As anyone who has ever been near a tiny child can tell you, they are natural disease vectors that are happy to spread their little germy gifts into the world.
> 
> We're all doomed. The two year olds will breed an ultra deadly, ultra virulent form of the virus and giggle the entire time. And then pout when no one will pick them up and play with them because they will have gained some sort of mystical super immunity.
> 
> I'm hiding in my apartment this weekend. I have wine and chocolate. The world can burn itself down for a few days as long as it doesn't kill the internet. Stay safe out there!


	19. Chapter 19

Jaskier remembered his toes fondly. He and they had been attached all his life. But now, treading through snow ever north, he couldn’t remember if they had been there this morning. He remembered his feet being in pain as they had started the small fire to warm themselves the night before, but they had dared not linger in the morning.

The wave of refugees had dwindled, most preferring to stay safe near the edges of the little towns. But for them there was no safety to be had there, only at Kaer Morhen would the little princess be safe, and he dared not linger for the spring thaw.

He had spent their last coin on good, hard leather boots for her; waterproof and warm. He made do by wrapping rags around his feet and hoping his ragged footwear managed the rest of the journey. He could survive without toes, but not without feet.

They were close. He could see the mountains looming over them. A day or two more, and Ciri would be safe.

He bit his tongue as fire lanced through his left side.

Always his left side. Geralt should know better than to leave himself so open. He was going to get himself killed one of these days.

“It’s getting dark,” Ciri said, huddled beneath two over sized cloaks.

At least she wasn’t shivering. He had been keeping a careful eye on her, lest she fall prey to the frigid season. It was so easy for the cold to sneak in and steal a child’s last gasp without notice. He kept her wrapped and warm and dry, though he knew hunger was gnawing through her little belly.

They had run to the end of their carefully packed rations, and Jaskier had failed to catch anything in days. If they didn’t find Kaer Morhen soon they would risk starving.

The only problem was that finding a secret witcher fortress was more difficult than he thought even Yennefer would have allowed for. North to the mountains, find the wide valley with meadow of bones, climb the trail? 

How was he to find a meadow of bones!? Everything had been swept pure with white, and the only death he could see was their own soon enough.

His right shoulder began to throb, and Jaskier shivered and sighed. Not a stab wound, no, Geralt was using himself as a weapon now. Had he been disarmed? The fool needed to keep a better handle on his sword!

The fool needed to stay alive a few days longer, or Ciri would die.

“Jaskier,” Ciri’s voice was quiet in the muffled twilight that was falling all around them.

Jaskier nodded, trying to hide his discomfort as he looked around. They were out in the open, they needed to at least find a little shelter before they camped for the night. He shifted the pack higher on his back, regretting selling off the horse, but grateful they didn’t have to worry about feeding it too.

“Jaskier,” Ciri repeated, leaning down and pulling something up from the ground.

Jaskier blanched, and then his heart soared.

A bone. They had found the meadow of bones. They would be safe soon enough.

“Quick, search for a trail, anything,” Jaskier rasped, his voice shattering like ice against the frigid air.

Ciri nodded and darted off, the bard following slowly behind. Let her run, let her be excited. Let her find the way and brag about it. Let her have some happy memories of her little adventure that had swept her up the continent.

Let her have some joy before he was forced to shatter her heart with painful news.

“Here,” Ciri shouted, jumping and waving, and Jaskier followed up. 

Up the trail, into the looming forest, and to where the witchers took their frigid wintery rest. He hoped they at least had fire and warm food, possibly even ale, when he got there. Though he doubted there would be much more than roast meat and onions given Geralt’s manners.

He growled as the girl darted ahead, and then gasped as his left knee screamed and gave out beneath him. He went sprawling in the snow, tears streaming down his face, and bit his tongue to keep from screaming. The taste of blood washed through his mouth, and he could hear Ciri sliding back down the path toward him.

Stars exploded behind his eyes, and he gave in to the darkness with a strangled shout.

* * *

Geralt growled as he slide from Roach’s saddle, ignoring the throbbing pain that exploded from his knee. It couldn’t be helped. The Nilfgaardian army itself wasn’t this far north, but their scouts were. Entire patrols of highly trained warriors, all asking questions about the little girl with golden curls.

Geralt had avoided them, had heard a few stories of a trio heading north, and then just a duo. A man and daughter. They had sold nearly everything, but still north into the harshness of winter they had continued.

Geralt had doubted he would have been able to track them at all if that damn horse hadn’t smelled so strongly of Jaskier. Only three days too late, but now he knew. There was only one place they could be fleeing to.

The one place where he felt like he was being pulled home.

Kaer Morhen.

He tested his feet carefully, wincing and thinking of what he must have done to his poor bard. Could he still feel the injury this far healed? Or had someone been wise enough to drug him to the gills and let him sleep this misery away?

Vesemir was going to have his head when he heard about this, but it would be worth it. It wasn’t the coast, but they were safe. Safe, and warm, and protected. Defended.

“Oh thank fuck,” Eskel emerged from the forest and settled on the snowy path beside him, a deer held over his shoulders, “I was sure we were going to have to send search parties out for you. I volunteered to go first, but Lambert was the rational decision.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow.

“That girl of yours won’t shut up about unicorns,” Eskel confided, “It’s been driving us all nuts.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt asked, his heart pounding in chest.

“The bard,” Eskel said, glancing away.

Geralt stumbled, turning to glare at his old friend. He was hiding something. 

“Eskel,” Geralt growled in warning, and the other witcher sighed.

“It’ll be good to have you around,” Eskel said, still evading the question, “It’s been too quiet without you.”

Geralt huffed and increased his pace. It felt like it had been an eternity since he had stormed away from his lover on the mountain. It had been, would always be without Jaskier.

His knee nearly gave out and he grit his teeth.

Hopefully his bard didn’t have his head for this too. He had tried. He really had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: I have done good!
> 
> Witchers: OMG, make the little prattling thing stop! *hurls the chattering child at Geralt halfway down the mountain*
> 
> Ciri: ... and they're so pretty, and moonlight isn't nearly as fine as their hair, and I heard they can actually ride the moonlight into the night sky and dance...
> 
> Geralt: *pain*


	20. Chapter 20

Vesemir stood at the top of the hill, glowering down at him. Arms crossed and Geralt could feel the anger radiating off his former teacher in waves. Eskel took one look and bounded to the side, heading toward the back entrance to the old kitchens.

Geralt shot his retreating back a glare. Coward.

“Geralt,” Vesemir snapped, “Care to explain why I have a damn magical wind chime with your name on it?”

Geralt sighed. He had never even met the damn girl, but apparently she was already getting him in trouble. How much trouble could a child be? Vesemir had certainly been training witchers her age for as long as he could remember.

“Her mother had powers-” Geralt started, and stopped when Vesemir growled at him.

“Your bard,” Vesemir corrected angrily.

Geralt swallowed.

“He,” Geralt started, but then just shook his head.

How could he explain their relationship? He knew nothing about his bard’s powers. He found the reminder of when he was near comforting; he was safe and alive. But it had taken ages to get there. Clearly the other witchers were not as enthused about his presence.

“And why he keeps cursing about you having hurt your knee and not seen to it?” Vesemir said, raising an eyebrow.

Geralt’s shoulders slumped. He felt like a child being reamed out for stealing apples from the orchard. Again.

“See to Roach,” Vesemir snapped, turning back toward the keep, “And you’d best know something about damn unicorns before she mauls you for information.”

“That could have gone better,” Geralt sighed, patting Roach on the neck as the horse nickered in agreement.

* * *

Jaskier watched as Geralt led Roach into the stables, and glanced around nervously. He had known Geralt was heading this way, had known it for ages, but to see him was something entirely different. His knee was still an issue, but, other than that, he looked good.

A mess, but good. He hadn’t been bathing, and his hair was in need of a cut, but he was well fed.

And gorgeous.

Jaskier slid away from the window and glanced down the hallway.

He knew there was no one there. No one wanted to be there. The other witchers had been complaining about his presence since the moment he had awoken in the keep, his head throbbing and wanting to strangle Geralt for getting into yet another fight.

Apparently they did not enjoy their medallions announcing his presence in the fading fortress.

According to Eskel, it felt like being on alert for an attack at all times.

So he could trust that he was alone, now, because he had found Ciri an entire library of books to explore, with the hint their may be unicorns in at least one, and what few witchers that had bothered to remain would make sure to find themselves elsewhere.

He stretched his leg, moving his knee carefully. It hurt, but it could take his weight, and it would be fine in a day or two. With a little rest, Geralt wouldn’t even notice it. He had already laid supplies in Geralt’s room.

Hopefully the man took the hint and actually used some of them.

He checked his bag carefully. Yennefer’s potions, a few more from the witcher’s supply, warmer clothes, a little food. There was no coin, but he had his lute. Without the princess he wouldn’t be a target and it would be safe for him to play once more. He could head back to Oxenfurt for the winter, see some old friends and get drunk with roaring crowds.

His grip tightened on the bag as he glanced down the hallway.

He should stay for Yennefer. She had said she would meet them here, when it was over to the south. But he couldn’t. He had thought about it, had lost sleep over it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stand to see Geralt turn his back on him once more.

He couldn’t deal with the heartbreak again.

So he would run. Oxenfurt was a pipe dream, he knew that, but there was still a town or two near enough to Kaer Morhen that his soul wouldn’t crack and break. A town or two away, he could manage that. Could follow his witcher at a distance, making sure he was safe.

Waiting, always.

The wind was a bitter chill as it slashed at his face, and he pulled the old wool scarf up across his nose, trying to block the worst of it. The cloak was thick enough, and he was grateful for the salvaged boots. But he would have to be quick before they noticed he was missing. 

Or, at least, before Ciri called attention to it. He knew the others would simply be relieved.

No more tense evenings sharp with angry glares and frigid words. 

He shivered as the the wind howled through the trees and he ducked down the path, hopping from step to step in Geralt’s tracks. He knew the others would be able to catch him soon enough, if they tried, but he wanted to prove he could at least try to run away without being so obvious.

He soul’s singing faded into a whimpering dirge, and he agreed. But all he could remember was the anger, the fury, glowing in his eyes the last time they had been together. He knew the other man would rather storm off into the shadows of a monster filled night than be near him.

He took a breath in, and gave it right back.

The cold froze in his lungs, frost choking from his mouth with a withered gasp.

He ignored the ice that fell to the ground, and concentrated on the snowy path before him.

* * *

“His family name is Pankratz,” Geralt said, hoping that meant more to Vesemir than it had to him as they walked up the stairway.

Vesemir froze for a moment, and cursed under his breath.

“You went and got-”

“I didn’t do it,” Geralt said defensively.

“You swear,” Vesemir demanded, and Geralt nodded.

Vesemir growled, changing directions and heading toward the old mage quarters. The area was frigid and filthy, but it had survived the fall of Kaer Morhen on one piece, more or less. Geralt hadn’t been down here since he had finished his mutations, and could still feel the pained screams echoing through his bones.

“They weren’t supposed to practice their magic anymore,” Vesemir growled, heading into a hidden library and running his fingers along the spines of broken tomes, “It’s unnatural.”

“And impossible to break,” Geralt said with a sigh.

Vesemir shot him a glare, and Geralt just shrugged.

“A dragon,” Geralt said in way of explanation.

Vesemir snorted, and pulled out a book, damp eaten and moldy, but still legible. It was tiny, thinner than a knife sheath, but it was the first sign of knowledge on the subject he had heard of, outside of Borch.

“Soul magic,” Vesemir grouched, “I should have fucking known. No wonder it’s been itching at you. When were you bound?”

“Jaskier said the day he was born,” Geralt sighed, watching Vesemir carefully turning the pages.

Soul curses. Soul death. Soul killings and killers. Soul leashes. Soul bonds.

Barely two paragraphs, all what he already knew. The bond was permanent. When he died, Jaskier’s life would be sacrificed, and he would live. Only the family Pankratz were known practitioners of the inborn magic. Ordered to stop on pains of death from some lord Geralt had never heard of, most likely centuries ago.

“It forgets to mention he feels my pain,” Geralt growled.

“Explains the whining about the damn knee, then,” Vesemir said, glancing at Geralt’s leg.

“Nilfgaard,” Geralt explained, “They’re hunting for Ciri.”

“Hunting for power,” Vesemir spat, “She took out a wall when your bard told her about Cintra and her grandmother’s passing.”

“A _wall_ ,” Geralt’s eyes went wide, and Vesemir nodded.

“Why do you think we keep entertaining her, no one wants to end up smeared the wrong way across the floor.”

“Surely Jaskier can talk some sense to her when he gets back,” Geralt said.

What sort of child surprise had he been bound to!?

“The bard never left,” Vesemir said, closing the door behind them as they headed back toward the stairs, “It’s why only me and Eskel have stayed on, that damn magic of his is setting us on edge.”

Geralt frowned, closing his eyes for a moment, and then shaking his head. No, Jaskier was close, but he wasn’t in the fortress. He was barely on the mountain at all.

“Fuck,” Geralt snapped.

He was running. He wouldn’t survive the damn blizzard that had chased him up here. He handed the book to Vesemir and ran for the stables. He needed to save the damn fool before he got himself killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: I will make things right.
> 
> Vesemir: You had better fucking make things right!
> 
> Jaskier: *panics and runs away into disaster*
> 
> Ciri: I found a book with... unicorns... where is everyone?


	21. Chapter 21

Jaskier’s hands shook as he held them to his face, trying to blow on them as he stumbled blindly in the storm. The snow was blinding, and he had wandered into the forest… he wasn’t sure what time was anymore. Darkness was setting, but it could be the storm.

Had midday come and gone and come again?

Take a breath in, and give it right back. 

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Take a breath in-

Jaskier coughed and wheezed when he tried to give his breath back. The wind whipped toward him, and he gasped desperately until he ducked again, slumping against a tree.

He wasn’t sure how far he was from Kaer Morhen anymore. He could feel his bond stretching, the thin strands pained near to snapping, but no matter how far he walked he never seemed to get farther away. 

He must be going in circles, lost in the storm.

Jaskier cowered against the wind, slumping over against the tree and burrowing into the snow. The cold white gleaming blocked the gnashing teeth of the wind as they tore at him, and he tried not to cry as he pulled the cloak tighter, wrapping the hood and scarf around his face.

Smaller, he told himself, he needed to make himself smaller. He needed to hide from the snow and the wind and the cold and the night, and everything would be fine in the morning. 

Golden threads would wind their way across the sky, and he could dash away towards the nearest town. It would be okay. His soul didn’t even hurt anymore.

He heaved a sigh of relief, fingers twitching idly against his cheeks. He was so cold he couldn’t even feel his soul anymore.

* * *

Geralt dropped from Roach’s back, ducking down against the howling wind and grit his teeth as he watched Jaskier’s tracks fade into the forest. He cursed, looking back up at Roach and sighed. She couldn’t safely follow the scent, not in this weather, not in these mountains. But he trusted her to know her way back home.

At least Vesemir would take good care of her.

“He’s gone off the path, girl,” Geralt groaned, patting her neck affectionately, “He’s lost.”

Roach gave him a shove toward the forest, and then turned up the path back toward Kaer Morhen. At least she would be happier out of the storm. He looked toward the forest and began to carefully watch the ground. One wrong step here could prove deadly in a storm like this.

He shivered, wishing he had thought to grab a thicker cloak before he had dashed off into a damn blizzard. But he had to find his bard. Jaskier had traveled with him for years and had been just fine, yes, but the man had never gone north in the winter. He didn’t know how dangerous the cold and the snow were.

He didn’t know how quickly the winter could take your life and leave your corpse to be hidden until the spring thaw.

Geralt cursed, what few signs Jaskier had left were hidden in the blizzard, and he was nearly blind. All he could do was continue deeper into the forest, knowing that the ache in his chest told him he was still going in the right direction. His medallion, once a pleasant roar, was beginning to wane.

The magic that tied him to his bard was faltering.

He quickened his pace, nearly falling through snow drifts, before he finally saw something collapsed against a tree. 

A lute.

His heart stuttered and he began running. Jaskier would never abandon his lute. His precious lute that he coddled more than a newborn babe, that he kept in better condition than even himself no matter the conditions. Where his lute lay, he must lay.

His bard was still alive, he told himself. He had to be. He could still feel his bond itching beneath his skin, telling him that the magic was there.

He grabbed the lute, and then realized in horror that it was still attached to Jaskier’s back. The man had buried himself in snow against the tree. 

Geralt dug with his hands, ignoring the stinging pain of the cold as they quickly went numb, uncovering his tiny, wool covered treasure. Jaskier was curled upon himself, covered and frozen, but still breathing.

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped frantically, bringing his bard to his chest and wrapping his cloak around the both of them.

Jaskier didn’t respond. 

Geralt breathed on Jaskier’s hands, still curled against his face, and kissed his cheek, trying to wake him. But still nothing. The man was frozen, cold and still, and Geralt could barely feel his medallion humming. 

“No,” Geralt whispered, standing and beginning to race through the snow, clutching the stiff man against his chest.

He hadn’t come so far just to lose him to the frigid winter.

Geralt stumbled as his feet hit a root, and he rolled forward, clutching Jaskier against himself. He lay there, shivering and cold, and panted for a moment. Jaskier’s heart was a hummingbird compared to his own, trying to break free and fly away. He buried his face in the frozen locks of hair and swore that he would keep the bird trapped, with him forever.

Anything to stop his bard from leaving. 

Jaskier didn’t stir, his breath barely even noticed, and Geralt lurched to his feet and trudged forward.

He was a witcher of the wolf school of Kaer Morhen.

He would defeat the winter.

* * *

Ciri hopped from foot to foot excitedly as Vesemir and Eskel kept glancing at the drafty entrance. The doors were shut against the storm, but even she could feel the cold drafts across the echoing hall.

Instead of sitting by the fire, there were buckets and buckets of water warming. She had wanted to move one earlier, but Eskel had shook his head and told her they would need them later. It didn’t make any sense to her, she had bathed three days ago, and she knew they only warmed water for baths once a week. But sometimes Jaskier was fussy and made her bathe more often.

She pouted as she picked at her stew. Jaskier would have explained it all to her, but he didn’t take meals with them often. He had told her that he was often busy writing new songs during meal times, but she saw the glares.

She knew the witchers didn’t like him, no matter how much they pretended otherwise. She had heard Lambert swearing about him before he left, and the others had disappeared soon after.

“Stop that,” she smacked Eskel’s hand as he reached for the last bread roll.

“Cirilla,” Vesemir sighed, “No hitting at the table.”

“No eating Jaskier’s food at the table either,” Ciri snapped, “You haven’t put a bowl out for him or anything!”

The witchers glanced between one another nervously. Ciri glared. 

They were hiding secrets, and she wouldn’t stand for that. Her grandmother had hid secrets, and it had never ended well. Eist had always told her to be honest or not do something that needed to be hid at all.

“Where’s Jaskier,” she demanded.

They only stopped putting out bowls for the other witchers when they left, she suddenly realized.

“What did you do!?” she screeched, the cups shaking on the table as the two men glanced at each other nervously.

“You’re always so mean to him, and you don’t let him be around,” Ciri began to sob, “And he’s so lonely and thin and stretched, and-”

Ciri broke into sobs, her voice lost in her wailing. She just wanted her Jaskier to hold her and rock her and tell her all the pretty little stories, and how she was going to get fast and strong and save all the unicorns one day. Because she would. She found all the books in the little secret places that told about them, and she could find them and keep them safe!

But it was cold, and she missed her grandmother, and she still wanted the bard to hug her and tell her sweet things. The witchers just taught her to fight, none of them knew how to comb her hair without pulling on her curls, or how to cook something more than onion bread and stew.

The doors burst open and a large white haired man nearly collapsed to his knees, clutching a sack of fabric against his chest.

“Oh thank fuck,” Eskel swore, and the two witchers dashed toward the stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciri: *throws a fit because witchers are all asses*
> 
> Eskel: *looks around for any distraction*
> 
> Vesemir: *prepares to hurl Eskel at the princess and make an escape*
> 
> Geralt: *general disaster*
> 
> Eskel and Vesemir: Woo, escape!
> 
> And, in other news, there is now confirmed corona virus in my area, woo! And the kindergarten I work at won't close, but they also can't find bleach to buy to clean the school daily either. So yeah, that's gonna be fun when everyone's sick no matter what soon enough.


	22. Chapter 22

Jaskier felt the world lurching around him, a haze of colors and blurring voices. And pain. All he could feel was pain exploding and burning through him. A never ending fire he could barely contain, stripping his skin and cracking his bones.

He screamed, struggling against solid hands, hands that were peeling away his skin and stripping muscles to mangled, charred masses.

He wasn’t on fire.

Geralt.

He struggled against their grasp, they needed to save Geralt! Geralt was burning! He was dying! There was no way to survive this! No one could endure this agony and still breathe.

“Geralt,” he screamed, thrashing as water was poured over him, turning to liquid embers that raced across his skin.

“Please,” he begged, his eyes still a murky mist of colors and brightness, “You have to save Geralt. He’s burning. He’s dying.”

Fire poured over him again, melting his flesh from his bones, and he screamed. He couldn’t concentrate on his breathing, there was no breath left in the charred remains of his lungs as they melted from his corpse.

He started gasping, trying to breathe in, desperate to keep breathing. Geralt was dying, being tortured and brought back and killed again, time after time after time. He would need his breath. It was the only gift he had left.

Anything to stop this pain. To save Geralt.

To save himself.

His vision began to waver, and he saw the soot smeared stonework of Kaer Morhen looming over him. 

Had Nilfgaard attacked? Were they torturing Geralt to find Ciri?

Geralt. He saw Geralt, standing over him, still whole.

It couldn’t be true. He felt the pain everlasting that scorched through his soul and rippled across his skin. Geralt couldn’t be here. But it was good to see him one last time, to know that it was all worth it.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier sobbed, smiling and trying to reach out toward the mirage, “Please, take my breathe. Take my gift.”

Searing heat washed over him again, and he could feel his body exploding into a thousand shards, and he collapsed, crying and pleading.

Take his gift. Everything he had belonged to his other, everything was for him.

Just make this agony stop. Let Geralt finally be free of this pain, and escape with their life.

Fire echoed through his name and he let the flames take him.

* * *

Geralt’s hand stilled for a moment as Jaskier begged to give up his life, thrashing in the shallow tub as they poured warm water over him. He didn’t warn to hurt his bard, but he needed to save him.

The only blessing came when Jaskier finally passed out from the pain, his form limp as Geralt crouched to carefully hold his head out of the water. His heartbeat was too fast, and his breathing erratic, but at least he would live.

He sighed, pressing a gentle kiss to his damp hair.

He would live.

“Thank fuck,” Vesemir groaned, rolling his shoulders as he put down the last empty bucket.

Eskel sighed, his eyes drifting to the side with a pained wince. There, Geralt saw, was a little girl with roughly shorn locks, eyes wide as she stared at them. Geralt winced, this must be Ciri, his little child surprise.

It was not the best way to meet her, or reassure her that everything was going to be alright. It must have looked like they were torturing his bard, it had certainly sounded like it. He would never forget the agonizing screams that broke loose from his mouth and tore into his very soul.

He should have been here sooner. Should have found Jaskier quicker.

Should never have left Jaskier alone on that damn mountain in the first place.

“Is he alive,” her voice quavered as she clung to the shadows against the wall, almost afraid that being seen would scare off the wispy ghost that Jaskier’s life had become.

“He’ll live,” Vesemir confirmed, “The ice got to him is all.”

“He’ll be fine in a day or two,” Eskel smiled, trying to reassure her.

Ciri did not look reassured. She looked haunted. 

How far had she traveled with the bard, Geralt suddenly wondered. Had they escaped battlefields and massacres? Had she seen the desecrated corpses that Nilfgaard left burning in their wake? Or was her knowledge confined to the rot and shit of the fleeing refugees, and the abandoned loved ones that no one had time to bury?

She took a step closer, and Geralt watched her curiously.

Just how brave would his little child surprise be.

And with a dash she was at Geralt’s side, staring down at their bard as he was cocooned in the cooling water, his head and shoulders balanced carefully in Geralt’s arms.

“He’ll live,” Ciri asked, staring at Geralt in confirmation.

“He’ll live,” Geralt promised.

“Good,” Ciri said, yawning and slumping against Geralt, “He hasn’t finished nearly half the stories he’s promised to tell me. He’s not allowed to break promises like that.”

Geralt snorted, nodding gratefully to Eskel as the other witcher scooped the exhausted child in his arms and spirited her away to a warm bed. He would remain with Jaskier for the night.

In the morning they would need to have words, and he didn’t want the displeasure of trying to step around a child for them.

“I’ll fetch some blankets,” Vesemir grouched, “There’s a fire already in the grate in the old guest chambers.”

Geralt sniffed at that. The old guest chambers, for guests that had most likely never come in the first place, were a dusty wreck of an attempt to have suitable chambers for non witchers. But there was a small fireplace, and the room could be kept easily warm.

He could suffer the inconvenience of an unpleasant smell if it meant keeping Jaskier safe.

* * *

Jaskier’s fingers trembled painfully as he tried to burrow into the warmth that surrounded him. Even the very air felt frigid, scraping across raw skin. But the warmth was solid, and simply pulled him tighter.

Arms, Jaskier noted fuzzily, his eyes still too tired to open. He was trapped in arms.

Breath tickled across his neck, and Jaskier sighed, laying still for a moment. He could feel gold wrapping around him in the cold. Threads tightening where his own had become frayed and bare. The arms were too big, the threads too strong, to be any others.

“Geralt,” Jaskier rasped, blinking and staring at the scarred chest he was cushioned against.

“Go back to sleep,” Geralt rumbled, adjusting the blanket and pulling it tighter around them, “You’re still too cold.”

“You were burning,” Jaskier mumbled, his eyes beginning to drift shut as he listened to the slow, steady drum of his heart, “Breathed for you.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt whispered, running his hand slowly through Jaskier’s hair, “You don’t need to breathe for me. I’m fine.”

Jaskier snorted at that. The man couldn’t walk down the street without finding a way to get himself into trouble. He needed someone there to help make sure he got where destiny intended. It’s why his family had sold his bond; Geralt was too important to die.

“Gift is yours,” Jaskier promised him, enjoying the feeling of fingertips tracing fiery dances across his back, “Golden promise.”

Jaskier slipped back into the warmth, his head heady with the feeling of nearly having his soul whole again after being alone for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciri: *doesn't know who Geralt is*
> 
> Geralt: *appears to be torturing Jaskier*
> 
> Ciri: *swears to sic her unicorn army on the bad white haired man*
> 
> Also, don't take any medical advice from this chapter. Warm people up gradually if they're suffering from 'out in the snow too long-itis', and definitely let the doctors do it their way. Too hot too suddenly can cause shock.
> 
> Also, frostbite fucking sucks. So avoid that by wearing proper protective gear and knowing the elements before you go out into them.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of warning, a slight mention of self harm. Nothing major, but it is there for those who need the warning.

Jaskier pulled the blankets close around him, snuffling and trying to find what was missing. There had been heat here, a beautiful, golden, plaited heat. But it was gone, fading away like a morning mist.

 _Geralt_.

His eyes shot open as he lurched forward, his wrist giving way awkwardly and sending him sprawling on the musty feather mattress. He looked around, confused, at the tiny room. Moldy tapestries, moldering furniture, and a well tended fire roaring happily away on a sooty grate.

He didn’t remember Kaer Morhen having rooms anywhere near as hospitable as this when he had poked around the place. But, then again, half the fortress was collapsing in on itself, so he was bound to have missed a room or two. Was this Geralt’s private room?

It seemed unlikely, the other witchers were all very determined to live as dry and frigid lives as a penitent monk. None of them certainly had anything as beautifully soft as a feather mattress, even if this one did smell of half wet shoes and dust.

But maybe Geralt had been a dream? Maybe he had been burning, and Jaskier had given him his final gift?

Was this the afterlife?

It was a dreadful afterlife if so, he had hoped for there to be nothing if there had been one at all, but maybe he was tucked away in Geralt’s soul? Maybe this was Geralt’s idea of bliss? The man had never been comfortable with the finer things, it could be his way of taking softness and care and stepping it back to make it more reachable.

Jaskier carefully swung his legs out and looked around the room carefully. There, on the old writing desk shoved in the corner, was a paper knife. Dark and forgotten, but it would suit his needs.

He knew Geralt’s agony, but it could only follow him so far into the real world.

With a few tottering steps, the blankets still wrapped firmly around his chilled form, he grabbed the knife and sank down against the frigid wall. It was an old blade, but Kaer Morhen craftsmanship. Even hidden and forgotten it kept an edge, always eager for a fight.

Pain had so many gentle nuances. The shriek of poison, and the gargled hiss of burning, and sharp agony of stabbing, the throbbing beat of a hard blow. He intimately knew the tattoo of each pinprick that crossed his witcher’s body.

He took the knife and carefully dragged it along his naked thigh with a flickering hiss.

Blood beaded up and then began to smear across his skin. 

Jaskier watched the red splash across his pale skin in rapt fascination, relishing the salty pain. This was his pain, and no other’s. This wasn’t some room tucked into the back of Geralt’s soul, where he had failed to merge and dissolve away completely. He was alive.

Only the living could feel true pain.

The door swung carefully open and Geralt stepped into the room, carrying a small tray of bowls and mugs. His nose flared, and he turned to Jaskier in an instant, bowls of stew spilling across the moth eaten rug as he rushed to the bard’s side.

“Fuck,” Geralt hissed, grabbing Jaskier’s blanket and pressing it hard to the wound, “What the fuck did you do!?”

Jaskier just swallowed, staring into those angry golden eyes and wondering how to explain. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Geralt had left him, and he had promised himself he was going to respect that and not approach him. But here he was, making his ex lover angry all over again.

Why couldn’t he ever do anything right? Why couldn’t Geralt just accept his gift and let him free!?

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier rubbed at his eyes, trying to brush away the tears, “No one was here, and I wasn’t sure… I had to make sure this was real.”

Geralt growled, picking Jaskier up and depositing him on the bed before looking around the room. 

“Stay here,” Geralt said, “And don’t… don’t hurt yourself.”

The door slammed shut as he stormed from the room, and Jaskier just held the sodden wool blanket to his thigh and cried.

* * *

Geralt stormed into the medical wing and started grabbing supplies. Bandages, poultices, herbs. His hands paused when he realized nearly all the potions would be deadly to humans, and thus useless for doing anything but killing his bard.

He growled, slamming the few things he had grabbed on the table, and glaring at it while breath heaved. How could he have let this happen? He had only been gone for a moment and Jaskier, weak as a frail winter doe, had managed to get himself hurt under his watch.

It had only been a few minutes! He should have waited. He hadn’t been that hungry, he had suffered through worse, he could have waited.

He should have waited for the other man to wake up, make sure he was safe, before he left.

Opening the door and finding the bed empty, the blankets thrown away, and the smell of blood drenching the air had made his heart stop. He never wanted to smell Jaskier’s blood again.

He looked down at his hands and realized he still had Jaskier’s blood smeared across his palms, flaking and brown. Not a lot, but enough to remind him how close he had come to losing his bard the night before. 

He had done it to himself, Geralt swallowed back the realization. Jaskier had cut himself, _on purpose_. Just to know if the world was still real.

How the fuck did he deal with that? Was it just this once? He never remembered smelling his bard’s blood when traveling with him before, and he had certainly never seen any uncounted injuries on his body when they had been lovers.

It had to be the side effect of the hypothermia, he insisted. Jaskier was just wounded and confused. In a day or two he would be fine. They would still have words, he would still need to apologize, but that was fine.

He would keep Jaskier with him. Keep him, and the girl, safe. 

That’s what witchers did. They kept people safe.

He gathered up the supplies and hurried from the room.

He would just bind Jaskier’s wound, and get him more stew, and keep him warm, and tell him that it was all going to be alright. He promised.

It was all going to be alright.

* * *

Ciri glared around the corner as the white haired man ran off with an arm full of medical supplies. They had promised that Jaskier was fine, but, clearly, that was not the case. How could he be fine when he needed half the stock!?

“What mischief are you getting up to,” Eskel asked, looming over her and watching the stranger trail off down the hall.

“Nothing,” Ciri answered automatically.

Because it was true. She wasn’t getting into trouble. She was standing and watching. That was the opposite of getting into trouble. She wasn’t getting into anything at all.

“Spying on Geralt rarely ends well,” Eskel informed her with a smile, “Besides, he’s dull to watch. All training and no tricks.”

“He has Jaskier,” Ciri informed him tartly, “And Jaskier is fun.”

Eskel nodded thoughtfully at that, taking her hand and leading her back toward the kitchens. Breakfast was finished, but there were a few loaves of bread beginning their rise for lunch and dinner. And she did enjoy helping roll little pieces into little bread buns. 

Although it was usually Jaskier she was rolling them with.

“Jaskier’s not okay, is he,” she finally asked, her shoulders slumping.

After all that screaming, and the stranger taking all the medical supplies, he couldn’t be. She didn’t think he was dying, but he had sounded like it last night. Sounded worse than anything she had heard when they had run from Cintra and left her grandmother behind.

She wiped away at the tears in her eyes. Her grandmother had been strong, and she would be too!

Eskel wrapped her in a hug, and she let the tears fall. 

“It’ll be fine, I promise,” Eskel soothed her, rocking and stroking her back.

Ciri snuffled and believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: *panics*
> 
> Geralt: *panics*
> 
> Ciri: *cries*
> 
> It's just a whole chapter of panicking and crying, now wasn't it? Holy hell, at least I have chocolate!


	24. Chapter 24

Geralt bound the knife wound on Jaskier’s thigh quietly, taking care to keep the pressure even. He took his time tying the not, and avoiding Jaskier’s eyes. He didn’t want to see tears in them. Jaskier had tried apologizing again before Geralt had shushed him and tended to his injury.

His _self inflicted_ injury.

His hands paused as the thought dragged itself across his mind.

It wasn’t a deep wound, and it wasn’t long. It most likely wouldn’t even leave a scar. But it was a wound, and there had been blood, and all he could do was think that this was all his fault. If he hadn’t been so angry, if he hadn’t left, maybe Jaskier wouldn’t be quaking like this.

He needed to apologize. But he just wasn’t sure _how_.

His hand stilled on the bandage as he thought, Jaskier’s flesh warm under his hand.

So warm compared to the near corpse he had hauled in from the storm the night before. He had been so afraid he would never feel this warmth again.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt sighed, looking up into Jaskier’s wide eyes, “I was angry. It wasn’t your fault-”

“No, I should have-”

“I was a coward,” Geralt broke him off, “I have hurt you your entire life, and I was a coward, and I ran away. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Jaskier’s smile was shaky as tears streamed down his face, “I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you.”

Jaskier collapsed onto Geralt, still sobbing, and Geralt held him tight against his chest, rocking him and planting small kisses where he could reach. He loved the man, loved him with an ache that he knew would one day hollow him out and turn his heart bitter, but he couldn’t stop.

He never wanted to stop holding his Jaskier close and listening to the rhythmic pounding of his heart, and the perfect tempo of his breaths. The breaths that he was so afraid of, that Jaskier spoke of with such joy but feared him with dread.

The breath that he never wanted to wail into him and restart his own.

“I’m sorry for every wound you’ve suffered,” Geralt whispered, picking his bard up and carrying him back to bed, “For every time I’ve never noticed your pain, for every complaint I’ve made about you needing your potions.”

“You didn’t know,” Jaskier hiccuped, curling into him as they lay together on the bed.

Geralt grabbed what blankets he could reach and pulled them around the two of them, curling around his bard. Protecting him. Warming him.

Doing everything he should have always done.

“I’ll never leave you again,” Geralt promised, capturing Jaskier’s lips with his own.

“Can’t leave me,” Jaskier sighed, “My soul is yours.”

Geralt buried his face in Jaskier’s hair and tried to stop the tears that fell. His life was dangerous. His world was pain. How could he save Jaskier from that? 

Jaskier drifted to sleep and Geralt followed after him, holding him tight and afraid that he would drift away.

* * *

Geralt frowned as he stood by the fireplace in the entrance hall and stared down at the little girl before him. Jaskier was happily slurping away at a bowl of stew and having entirely too much fun watching the scene play out.

“Ciri, be nice,” Jaskier scolded, a grin spread across his face as he bit into a tiny bread roll.

“He hurt you,” Ciri snapped back, her glower never wavering.

This was his child surprise? She was certainly spirited, not many could claim to stand up against a witcher and refuse to back down, but her manners were clearly lacking. Unsurprising, really. He had never found those at court to be nearly half as polite as stories made them out to be.

At least she was angry at him for legitimate reasons.

Even he was angry at himself for hurting Jaskier.

“He’s your destiny,” Jaskier pointed out, digging around in the bowl with a frown, “Did someone forget to cut potatoes?”

“How could I slice potatoes when I all I could think about was him torturing you!” Ciri growled.

“He wasn’t torturing me,” Jaskier reminded her for the umpteenth time, “He was saving my life. Sometimes pain is necessary in healing.”

“I don’t like him,” Ciri insisted.

“He knows about unicorns,” Jaskier shrugged.

The little girl’s face twisted as she mulled the new information over, and Geralt sighed inwardly. She was his child surprise, and she was bound to him. He would protect her with his life.

But she was a _child_! He didn’t know the first thing about children! He had left her with Calanthe because he didn’t want to hurt her, and he certainly didn’t want to put himself in the position of whatever this was now.

“He’s one of the best witchers to ever walk the world,” Jaskier continued, leaning back in his chair, “And he’s undoubtedly walked his way through secrets that you couldn’t even begin to imagine. And what’s more well guarded than precious unicorns?”

“Really,” Ciri stared at him, her eyes going wide with hope.

Geralt cursed Jaskier. He didn’t know a damn thing about the beasts except that they were long gone, hunted to extinction before he was even born. Of course there were rumors of their existence, there were always rumors. Listen long enough at enough doors and you could hear rumors about anything.

Even fucking unicorns.

“Secrets are earned,” Geralt said, “Not handed out like candy.”

“Yes, yes,” Ciri hurriedly agreed, “They have to be protected. I read so much about their magic in the books! And even Yennefer said they were important!”

“Yennefer,” Geralt asked, glaring over at Jaskier.

This was the first that he had heard that the sorceress knew the girl as well. Was he the last to know every secret of his own damn life!?

“She,” Jaskier’s eyes glanced at Ciri, “She was called away on business.”

Geralt nodded in understanding. He had heard that the mage council was gathering to stand against the forces of Nilfgaard, but nothing more than that. Only some news traveled fast to the north, and very little to Kaer Morhen once the snows set in. If Yennefer didn’t return on her own it was doubtful that they would know anything of her until the spring thaw.

He gazed at the two of them fondly.

Come the spring thaw he intended to take them and lead them to the coast. It was still too dangerous with Nilfgaard undefeated and their march north unwavering. He couldn’t risk them capturing the princess, and he would never allow Jaskier to come to harm.

Come to more harm. He had certainly done enough to his lover over his the stretch of his life.

“What books,” Geralt demanded, turning to Ciri with a stern mask, “Bring them. Some hide more lies that truths.”

Ciri’s eyes sparkled and she dashed away, ricocheting off stone walls as she bounced up the stairs and to wherever it was that she had secreted away her treasures. And Geralt had no doubt that she had many of them, there were always a few old tomes of pure nonsense in any collections. Kaer Morhen included.

“And how am I going to break it to her that those beasts are extinct,” Geralt asked, sitting down and stealing a bread roll from the pile next to Jaskier’s bowl.

“No one has figured that out quite yet,” Jaskier admitted, “We’re all hoping she just grows out of it.”

“Even Yennefer,” Geralt asked with a snort.

Jaskier’s hands stilled on his spoon, and he stared into his stew morosely. 

“She was called south, to the fighting,” Jaskier said softly, “She promised to meet us here when she could, but… there hasn’t been any word.”

“She’s a powerful sorceress,” Geralt reassured him, “I’m sure she’s fine.”

Jaskier nodded, and Geralt bit into the bread roll. The most they could do at this point was sit and wait. Between the blizzard and the distance, they were all helpless until news arrived.

Hopefully the mages had been able to make a stand and halt the oncoming storm of Nilfgaard before it had washed over their limited numbers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McDonalds Japan launched a new hot strawberry pie yesterday. I was very excited by this. So I bought one after work tonight. And then I got home and ate it while it was still warm!
> 
> I was then greatly disappointed because it wasn't an apple pie. I'm not even sure if that means I like the apple pies better, I was just sad that the strawberry pie wasn't an apple pie.
> 
> I have literally turned into a two year old with no logic or common sense. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go have a meltdown because there is no bubble bath for my shower. And especially no sparkly blue bubble bath with dinosaur bubbles.
> 
> Because that is, apparently, the way I am going to roll tonight.


	25. Chapter 25

Jaskier strummed idly on his lute as he sat on the stone wall overlooking the training grounds. A fresh powder still lingered on the ground, but he could spy a few brave shoots making their way up through the snow at the thought of the coming spring.

And it would be spring soon enough. Vesemir had brought back berries from the nearest town market the week past, so the sun had already chased winter away in the lower valleys. He doubted it was ever truly anything but a chilly season here in the mountains.

Geralt lunged and tapped at Ciri once more, their little wooden swords clacking together as she bounced backwards and deflected the hit. He was impressed, she was truly improving.

Her temperament toward Geralt was warming much slower, unfortunately. While she was fascinated by the little tidbits he dropped here and there about unicorns, her underlying distrust of him still made her wary. Jaskier doubted anything short of his lover producing an entire herd of the beautiful horned creatures would do anything to change that.

Though, thankfully, her interest had begun to wane, following the winter into memory. She had moved on to becoming more interested in witcher training, and that was something Geralt could actually, truly, be good at.

Jaskier tried not to laugh as she landed on her ass with a pout. She was getting better, but Geralt was not going light on her.

He glanced up as Vesemir stood beside him, arms crossed as he observed.

“He’s going soft on her,” the old witcher griped, and Jaskier chuckled.

“You would too,” Jaskier reminded him kindly.

“Not that fucking light,” Vesemir grouched, “Even Geralt was using steel at that age.”

“Ciri won’t be a witcher, no matter what she says,” Jaskier reminded him.

And it was true. Though she had gotten a few ideas about killing monsters and protecting people into her head, it was not the path that stretched before her. Her destiny lay in conquered kingdoms and their freedom, not ratty sheets in smokey taverns.

But it wouldn’t be a bad thing if she knew how to turn a blade, or use one. Her grandmother had certainly made her claim to history based on her own prowess on the battlefield. And while he hoped Ciri never needed to, he could feel a trill of possibility there.

There were so many possibilities for the girl in the future, he merely hoped that they all had happy endings.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you,” Jaskier asked, watching Geralt correct Ciri’s stance once again.

Vesemir grunted, but he knew a witcher’s yes when he heard one. 

Eskel had already left a few weeks before, and he had been surprised that Vesemir had stayed on this long. He was sure they would all bolt for the open road the instant enough snow had faded away for the horses to safely travel. But they had lingered, and now it would be just him, Geralt, and Ciri.

“He wants to keep you lot here,” Vesemir confided in him, “Where it’s safe.”

Jaskier snorted at that. Keep him away from Geralt? That wouldn’t be happening. Now while he still had two legs and a lute. He was bound to the man, by soul and by choice. 

He had been a paper doll trapped in a stone prison once. Had been born to that life. He would not sit and watch as his lover tried to trap him in a new cage. He would die before that ever happened again. He had earned his freedom and escaped, and he would never be kept prisoner again.

“We’ll hog tie him to Roach if we have to, but we’re not getting left behind,” Jaskier chirped, letting out a hurrah as Ciri managed to parry a particularly heavy blow aimed at her side.

“That’s what I said,” Vesemir agreed, “But the fool has little sense at times.”

“Of course not,” Jaskier smiled, “That’s what me and Roach are for.”

Vesemir grinned at that, and Jaskier nodded thoughtfully as he returned to his lute. The wind carried a warm memory scented with flowers yet to come, trailing up from the valley. But lingering, at the very back of his throat, was the scent of ash.

War was tearing the world apart, and they all knew it. Yen had never come, nor had she sent word. With the passes clear and winter sleeping, there was no excuses to be had any longer. Evil things had come to pass, and her fate was still a dark mystery.

And little Ciri could stomp her foot and let out a shriek that could take down walls if she wasn’t careful. They didn’t know what to do with her, and they couldn’t train that part of her.

They needed Yen to calm and help the flow of magic. And they needed to go south to find her.

“Take care of him,” Vesemir finally said as they watched Geralt laugh as Ciri threw a wilting snow ball at him as he sent powder flying as he smacked it with his wooden blade.

“I shall,” Jaskier promised, “My breath for his. Always.”

“That’s not,” Vesemir’s breath shuddered for a moment, “He needs you alive.”

Jaskier hummed in agreement, but he knew Vesemir understood. He loved Geralt, but it was a fantasy to think it ended any way other than his soul rebraiding his wither’s back to life. It was their destiny. Their life.

He smiled as his left wrist stung. Ciri had finally managed to gain a proper hit, though not hard enough to cost Geralt his grip. But it was a beginning. She would learn to hit harder, more seriously, in the future.

Vesemir turned to leave, and Jaskier looked up.

“You’ll say goodbye, won’t you,” he insisted, “Geralt may not mind, but Ciri will miss you.”

“At dinner,” Vesemir agreed, “I’ll be gone before sunup.”

Jaskier nodded, and went back to strumming at his lute as his lover and their child dancer around in the snow exchanging more insults than blows.

* * *

Jaskier closed his eyes and listened to the slow, steady beat of Geralt’s heart. It was more even, more calming, than even his breathing had ever come to be.

“Vesemir’s leaving in the morning,” Jaskier said, enjoying the feeling of Geralt’s fingers tracing through his hair.

“I thought he would be gone a week ago,” Geralt confessed, and Jaskier enjoyed the feel of his voice rumbling through his chest.

“We’re leaving soon too,” Jaskier reminded him.

The winter had been long, and he could feel the pulsing urge to flee to the wilds coursing through his lover’s soul. A thrum as steady as his heartbeat. Run and be free, the white wolf of the open roads.

“We’re coming with you,” Jaskier told him.

“With Ciri,” Geralt’s hand stilled, “It’s too dangerous. Nilfgaard is still out there, searching for her.”

“And Yennefer helped burn their damn army to the ground at Sodden Hill, if the news Vesemir brought from town was right,” Jaskier insisted, sitting up and leaning over his love, “We’re coming with you.”

Geralt growled, glaring up at Jaskier, but the bard wouldn’t move. He was right, and Geralt knew it. He wouldn’t be left behind. Not again.

“It’s not safe!”

“The road is never safe,” Jaskier smiled, tracing Geralt’s cheek, “But it’s better, together.”

“You’ll get-”

“I’ll be fine,” Jaskier dipped his head and pulled him into a kiss, “I have my witcher and his daughter to protect me.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Geralt admitted, his voice gruff.

“Then don’t die,” Jaskier grinned.

Geralt snorted, but Jaskier could feel his quivering pain. He could joke about it, he had spent his entire life getting used to the cost of his breath, but Geralt still quavered at the thought. His witcher needed to understand that he wasn’t afraid of giving his gift.

It was his life and his love, and he knew Geralt would cherish it and not use it in vain.

But tonight wouldn’t teach him not to growl and curse when he noticed Jaskier soothing a training wound that had copied across his own body. Tonight was for remembering why he would give his gift gladly and with love.

And why they would all be happy, together, when they set off on their journey and leave this stone prison behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And everyone was grumpy and learned to communicate and lived happily ever after!
> 
> With apple pie. Because I have one now. And it's delicious!


	26. Chapter 26

Geralt grunted and picked up the rabbit that had managed to get itself caught in his snare. The sun still lingered high enough over the horizon that it would be hours yet before it was dark enough to drop off to sleep.

A lonely, cold sleep.

He had led them down the western road out of Kaer Morhen, and had felt the steady burn of Jaskier’s glare on his back ever since. The western road would meet up with paths that led south, he reminded himself. Yes, it was slower, but there was less traffic. It would be safer for the three of them.

And the western road led to the coast, where there would be safety. He had enough coin that he could hide Jaskier and Ciri in a tiny cottage and fetch Yennefer alone, without fearing for their safety. It would be better that way.

Unfortunately he knew Jaskier’s stance on the matter.

His lover was determined to be by his side, and Geralt’s hands nearly shook in fear for him. One wrong move, a slow parry, and his lover could be dead. He couldn’t defend all three of them without worrying about his death.

He looked up as Ciri walked carefully through the forest.

Her budding skills and tiny form were helpful, but she was still a human, easily heard by his enhanced hearing. He smiled, wringing the rabbit’s neck quickly before standing to greet her. She shouldn’t be wandering alone, no matter how close to camp they were.

“Jaskier’s mad at you,” she informed him with a hushed whisper.

Geralt snorted. He didn’t need the child to restate the obvious.

“He thinks you’re going to send us away. You can’t do that,” she said quite seriously, arms crossed over her chest as she frowned up at him.

Geralt swallowed a laugh. Her protectiveness was cute, but it wouldn’t stop the decision he had made. Their safety was paramount. And not even a pouting child would change that.

“It’s safer this way,” Geralt reassured her.

“He’ll die if you go,” Ciri insisted, her eyes worried.

“He’ll be mad, but he’ll understand,” Geralt said calmly.

Even Jaskier knew the dangers of the road too well. He couldn’t want their child exposed to that, not with a war going on and driving people to desperation. Because it was the people he feared more than monsters at this point.

“His soul is stretched too thin,” Ciri said weakly, glancing back toward camp, “Can’t you see it?”

Geralt froze. Could she see their soul bond? Jaskier had described it to Geralt once, comparing their souls to golden strands braided and twisting together. But he had never sensed anything more than a gentle pull and the magical hum that washed soothingly over his skin.

“He was sick before you came,” Ciri admitted, kicking at the dirt, “My soul is tied to yours, it helped, but it’s not enough. If you leave, he’ll get sick again.”

Tears started streaming down her face and Geralt’s hands tightened around the rabbit.

“I don’t want him to die too.”

“No one is going to die,” Geralt said with a strangled voice, “I promise.”

Why hadn’t Jaskier told him? 

No. He knew why Jaskier hadn’t told him. Jaskier had built a ship of self sacrifice out of his life and was determined to sail it into every storm he could find. He would never do anything that he thought actually interfered with Geralt’s life.

Even if it meant his own.

“Camp,” Geralt managed, taking a step forward and nudging the girl in the right direction.

They needed to get back to camp. And he needed to feel Jaskier, alive, in his arms, and promise to never leave him. Never hurt him. 

The damn fool needed to tell him these things! 

Ciri nodded, the bounce gone from her step as she sniffled and wiped at her eyes. He rested a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. He knew her pain, even if he couldn’t show it, had been taught and raised not to show it. 

She could cry and be worried about their bard enough for the both of them.

* * *

Jaskier was fussing around with the fire angrily. After the third time dropping the same damn stick he finally gave up and just sat on a stone, glaring at it as it happily ate the wood he and Ciri had managed to gather. 

How fucking dare Geralt do this! He had thought they had been on the same page, had been sure that his witcher understood. They were going to find Yennefer, together, and _stay_ together! None of this shoving the two of them in a damn cottage and running off.

And now that’s exactly where they were headed. And Geralt knew how much he hated that plan. Had hated when he had heard the other man trying to up sell a cottage by the sea half the winter. S if it hadn’t been his idea first!

Of course, his idea had included the three of them staying together and waiting for the Nilfgaardian threat to blow over. Of living a happy life, that he knew was a fantasy, and having no regrets.

But of course the fool and decided to go and botch that happy little fantasy!

He heard Ciri and Geralt returning and looked up to return to glaring at his lover when he froze. Ciri had tears tracks down her face, and Geralt’s expression was a mask. What had happened in the forest?

He stood, taking a step forward. No one was dead, and Geralt wasn’t injured. Not even a stone in his boot.

“What-”

The dead rabbit dropped from Geralt’s hands and he grabbed Jaskier and held him close. Jaskier swallowed, reaching around to return the hug tentatively, looking down as Ciri latched onto his leg. Geralt squeezed harder, burying his face in Jaskier’s neck, and now Jaskier was worried.

What had happened in the woods? 

“Geralt,” Jaskier started, trying to pull away to look his lover in the face.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Geralt demanded gruffly, and Jaskier could almost see unshed tears gleaming in his eyes.

“I thought you knew I was pissed,” Jaskied asked, confused.

He hadn’t exactly been subtle about his anger.

“ _Your soul_ ,” Geralt said, and Jaskier swallowed.

Oh.

He had hoped to avoid telling Geralt about… the issue. Had hoped that just being near him until the end would negate actually needing to tell him about it. He already had so much weight on his shoulders, already felt so guilty about Jaskier feeling his pain, that he didn’t want to add this to the burden as well.

“It’s fine,” Jaskier said, trying to reassure him, “As long as we’re close, it’s fine. And, if you’re not, I can just lean on Ciri a little. That’s all.”

“Not true,” Ciri said, looking up, “It’s all faded and stretched and, and, and it’s not right. You’ll get sick again if Geralt goes away. Just like you were before he came.”

Geralt glared at him, and Jaskier sighed. At least they’d be able to travel south together. Geralt’s guilt wouldn’t let him stuff the two of them away in a cottage and ride off in the middle of the night now.

“Ciri, can you go fetch some more wood for the fire,” Jaskier asked, “Please?”

Ciri glared at him for a moment, and then nodded and walked off, still looking carefully back at them as if they would disappear the moment she had turned her back. Jaskier felt bad for this, she shouldn’t have to be carrying this weight on her shoulders too. She had already suffered so much so young.

“How bad is it,” Geralt finally asked, his voice a hushed whisper.

“It’s,” Jaskier looked over at the dying fire, “It’s difficult.”

“Are you dying,” Geralt demanded.

“No,” Jaskier smiled weakly, “It’s, your soul is strong. And mine has spent a lifetime trying to support it. It stretches when you aren’t near, trying to make sure you’re okay.”

“Ciri said it was _faded_ ,” Geralt said, “Faded doesn’t sound fine.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say. How could he explain that he didn’t know what was happening any more than Geralt did at this point. No one knew, really. Paper dolls weren’t supposed to last this long.

“My soul is yours,” Jaskier said with a said smile, “It just wants to make sure it has everything you need. Always. That’s all. Ciri just doesn’t understand what she’s seeing.”

“You’re lying,” Geralt growled.

“Always,” Jaskier admitted, “Because I don’t know the truth anymore.”

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s shoulders, his hands tightening, but Jaskier just stared at him, sadly, calmly. He didn’t know what was going to happen. If Geralt didn’t need his gift, would his soul simply slip away, entangled in Geralt’s? Would he give a last breath meaninglessly into the void?

It was beyond his knowledge. 

He just knew that he was there for Geralt, fully, forever. No matter what happened to him.

Geralt was his life.

“You’re my life,” Jaskier reassured him, “Whatever happens, it happens.”

“I don’t want your life,” Geralt said, pulling Jaskier into a kiss, “I want you, alive!”

Jaskier hummed in agreement. Being alive certainly was more pleasant than not, he was sure.

“We turn south in the morning,” Jaskier asked, stroking Geralt’s back as the white haired man buried his face in his neck.

Geralt rumbled a yes, and Jaskier sighed. At least he got what he wanted. He just wished Geralt had never found out. This shouldn’t be his burden to bear.

His last breath was supposed to be a gift, not a chain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciri: He's dying *points at Jaskier*
> 
> Geralt: The fuck you mean you're dying!
> 
> Jaskier: uh... so...
> 
> Geralt: *tries to kiss things better*
> 
> Jaskier: *shrugs* Hey, at least I got what I wanted. Also, dead rabbit on the ground, kinda eww, and kinda not enough food for three of us.


	27. Chapter 27

Jaskier hummed as he smeared the inky paste he had made into both Geralt and Ciri’s hair. It wouldn’t keep, not like a proper dye, but it would certainly darken their hair until they bathed again. He doubted they would be blessed with warm water and proper soap any time soon, so it should keep them safe, for now.

They just needed a quick trip into town. Supplies that they couldn’t get in the wilderness. No fighting, no contracts, just supplies. And news and gossip. Yennefer had been at Sodden Hill, but that had been ages ago. There was no telling where she was now. If she had shown back up at Kaer Morhen after they had left she would be summering there alone until someone returned.

“It’s itchy,” Ciri whined as Jaskier carefully massaged it into her scalp.

He couldn’t leave her roots showing, or people would become suspicious. He had added a few of the herbs Geralt had collected in the forest, but it was still grimy and unpleasant. Jaskier sighed at her golden locks turned to mud, but there was nothing for it.

“What’s our story,” Jaskier asked again.

They wouldn’t be in town long enough to have questions asked, and the definitely wouldn’t be openly speaking to anyone more than necessary. But, still, it was good to have a story firmly in place. Just in case. Nilfgaardian soldiers could easily be asking questions this far south. Especially questions of people who might get spotted coming from the north, or heading south.

Most people were going the opposite these days.

Nilfgaard had razed Cintra to the ground, burning and killing their way through the country in a genocidal fashion. But it seemed to have satiated their appetite for the time being, and they were allowing people to live a little farther north, in neighboring countries.

But Jaskier had his bets on the fact that a sizable portion of their army had been leveled at Sodden Hill, and they simply didn’t have the manpower to stomp through any more countries leaving behind the same level of carnage as they had in the past.

“Geralt is my father,” Ciri repeated with a sigh, “You’re my uncle Julian. We’re returning home to see if anything is left of our farm.”

“Very good,” Jaskier smiled, “And try not to talk to anyone. Just keep calling Geralt father and me uncle, and we’ll probably pass inspection.”

“But our hair looks muddy and yours doesn’t,” Ciri pointed out, “That looks odd.”

Geralt grunted in agreement, and Jaskier groaned. It was true, his lusciously not covered in sooty ink locks would stand out amongst their little group. There was nothing for it, then, but to grit his teeth and regret not having any soap once more.

His poor hair!

Geralt smirked as Jaskier handed him the bowl, and motioned at his head.

“And no swords or armor,” Jaskier reminded him as Geralt began gently working the mixture into his hair.

Geralt’s hand stilled.

“I’ll be wearing my cloak,” Geralt reminded him.

Jaskier snorted. Like a cloak did anything to hide Geralt’s broad form. Clearly his witcher spent his time avoiding people rather than watching them. The cloak usually made it more obvious what he was than the medallion and the swords.

“You stand out too much as it is,” Jaskier informed him, shivering as Geralt traced a cold finger beside his ear, “No armor or swords. And hide your medallion.”

“If we get attacked-”

“I can scream!” Ciri finished, nearly bouncing up and down in excitement.

She couldn’t control her powers, but she certainly knew what circumstances could bring them up, and how to channel them to a limited degree. She had been begging to practice the entire journey, much to both their concerns. 

“No!” Jaskier and Geralt nearly shouted at the same time.

Ciri pouted, curling in on herself and playing with her fingers.

“It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Jaskier said softly, elbowing Geralt before he could open his mouth and ruin the moment, “But your mother had similar powers. So they’ll be looking for a little girl with powers, and we can’t risk them taking you.”

“Okay,” Ciri said with a sigh, still playing with her fingers.

“Now a quick, gentle rinse, and we should be ready for town in the morning,” Jaskier beamed.

At least they could warm up enough water to rinse their hair, even if they couldn’t take a full bath. How he wished they could risk staying at an inn overnight. But not with Nilfgaard on the hunt. Not with Ciri’s life at risk.

“Yes uncle,” Ciri chirped, and Jaskier smiled.

At least one of them could be happy for a little while.

* * *

Geralt had grumbled about leaving behind his swords and armor, but Jaskier was right. A simple farmer would never have such luxuries. They would be safe with Roach and the other two horses for now. But he would feel better for having a sword on his back once again.

The mud squelched beneath their boots, and he glared at the town. It was a crossroads town, big enough to not notice strangers passing through, small enough to never got lost in. More refugees wouldn’t cause anyone to notice. And he aimed to try to keep it that way.

“I’ll grab an ale,” Jaskier smiled, nodding toward the tavern, “Be quick.”

“Be safe,” Geralt grumbled, watching his lover walk off.

With dark hair, rough spun clothes, and no lute, he could barely recognize the man as the flashy bard that had stupidly started following him all those years ago. He winced as he realized he had gotten beaten by the elves that day.

Had gotten Jaskier beaten by the elves, too. Double the pain, without anyone noticing it.

So much he could have done differently.

“Father,” Ciri said quietly, pulling on his hand.

He sighs and looks toward the market. They need vegetables. It isn’t healthy to survive on nothing but meat and scavenged bits of tubers and berries alone, especially for Ciri. She’s growing, and she needs the energy. It is a long time until winter, when he can safely have her eating hot meals every day in Kaer Morhen.

Or the coast.

Or Oxenfurt.

Or wherever the hell Jaskier pleases. Because he’s earned the right to make a few decisions after years of simply being dragged along.

But he hoped for Kaer Morhen, where it would be safest.

He manages to afford some dried fruit, and dried vegetables. It’s not enough, it would never be enough between the three of them, but it would do. Everyone is suffering these days. After they find Yennefer, though, maybe she could portal them somewhere. Somewhere safe.

He feels the weight of the coin purse and looks toward the apothecary. 

It’s a risk. But it’s necessary. He can’t avoid a battle that may be coming, no matter how hard he tries. And Jaskier has survived a lifetime of his pain, but he doesn’t want it to continue a moment longer.

They only have two of Yennefer’s pain potions in Jaskier’s pack. Jaskier has filled older, used vials with a similar liquid, but Geralt can tell. He can smell the difference between them. If they need to run, Jaskier needs to be able to run as well. Needs to run with Ciri while he protects them, and only a pain potion could do that.

He knew nothing they would have could compare to Yennefer’s work. The woman was fantastic at what she did, but anything would do in an emergency. Just a little would be enough. Something that Jaskier could down to keep the pain off as he escaped.

And, maybe, something that wouldn’t kill him. If he was more careful in his fights, more wary about injuries instead of depending on his mutations and potions to get him through alive, then Jaskier wouldn’t need something as strong as one of Yennefer’s pain potions.

So he ducks into the little shop, Ciri quick on his heels, and freezes.

The potent scent of lilac and gooseberries surrounds him, and his eyes narrow.

They had waited all winter for her. Jaskier had fretted and worried when she had never arrived, and never sent word. And yet, here she is, alive and well, and running a little shop. 

“What the fuck are you doing here,” Yennefer hisses as she turns from putting a nameless glass jar on a shelf and sees the two of them.

“We’re here to save you,” Ciri chirps, coming out from behind Geralt’s legs.

“Where the hell is Jaskier,” Yennefer demands, eyes narrowed, as the bard does not come out from behind Geralt as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by the letter Y, a cookies and cream cornet, and the fun little comment game me and Nemainofthewater played in the comments on the last chapter and helped me figure out how to reintroduce Yennefer into the story!
> 
> If anyone goes back and reads them, no, they are not spoilers. That is not where this fic is going. That's just angst that was fun to play with with another talented fic writer (and everyone should definitely go read her fic 'Shining' because it is adorable and I love it to death!), but angst that wasn't going to show up here.
> 
> Jaskier: And put the damn sword away!
> 
> Me: *stuffs a pastry in Jaskier's mouth and keep swinging the sword around wildly*


	28. Chapter 28

Yennefer glanced around quickly and grabbed Geralt by the shoulder, hard, and dragged him toward the back room. Geralt kept up quickly, and Ciri scurried behind, thankfully. She was happy to see Yennefer, that much was clear, when she latched onto the other woman’s leg with a giddy hug, and Yennefer smiled and patted her head.

The sorceress ran her fingers through Ciri’s dark, matted locks with a frown, and returned her glare to Geralt.

“I sent them to you in Kaer Morhen to be safe,” Yennefer hissed quietly, “You were supposed to stay there!”

“We heard about Sodden Hill,” Geralt whispered back, glancing carefully through the curtain at the main shop.

His heart dropped when he saw two Nilfgaardian soldiers strolling past on the street. He should have expected this, should have known they would be here. But he hadn’t seen such an obvious sign of conquest on the trail. 

They would have to slip out of town carefully and make for the northern roads quickly. Yennefer could ride behind Ciri and keep her on the horse when she fell asleep. The farther they got by sunrise the better, and safer.

“Then why did you come down,” Yennefer whispered, “We broke the main force, but there was still too many.”

“And so you ran and started a _store_ ,” Geralt demanded.

Because this looked like madness to him. Did she turn? Did she surrender? Had she activated some device to summon others here to capture Ciri?

He cursed Jaskier for not allowing him a sword. Even steel was a threat against mages.

“I hid,” Yennefer spat, “And gathered intelligence. We stopped the main force with brute strength, but it will take wiser minds and better plans to stop the oncoming storm.”

“We thought you were dead,” Ciri whined, her face buried in Yennefer’s skirts.

“I couldn’t risk sending word,” Yennefer admitted with a sigh, “It would be too easy for them to follow a letter. They’re already suspicious enough as it is. But with you two storming in here, I’ll have to burn the cover. There’s no way to save it.”

“We ride north at sunset,” Geralt growled, watching the patrol circle back around the front of the shop.

They were fooling no one. Jaskier was still in the tavern. Had they found him too?

“The horses are off the trail north of town, we’ll be waiting,” Geralt told her, grabbing Ciri’s hand.

“Where’s Jaskier,” Yennefer demanded, clutching as his shoulder.

“In the tavern, looking for news of you,” Geralt growled back, shaking free and walking carefully out of the shop, a palmed jar in his hands.

He made a show of tucking the jar carefully into his pouch with the other supplies as the guards eyed him. It was odd, but it wasn’t the oddity that coming out of a shop without anything at all would have been in the first place. 

“Come, let’s get your uncle before he drowns,” Geralt said gruffly, leading Ciri toward the tavern.

He could feel the eyes tracing his every step.

Fuck.

* * *

Jaskier sat at the edge of the room, in the brooding gloom, toying thoughtfully with his mug. The ale wasn’t bad, certainly less water than he had thought, but he was _bored_. What little flirting he had tried with the tired woman behind the counter had been met with a sturdy silence.

The room echoed with that same sturdy silence. Three people in a room, and two of them near unconscious. 

He watched carefully for a moment and then sighed. One of them had finally fallen unconscious, his head pillowed roughly on the table. Clearly his ale had been stronger than Jaskier’s own, because Jaskier doubted he could reach that level of drunk short of a king’s coin purse.

But, then again, given the shadowy glares that the tavern mistress was throwing at the smokey windows, these were shady, desperate times. Enough so that it let money be forgotten and the worst off allowed to drink their sorrows away.

Jaskier took another sip and glanced at the door.

He had noticed the soldiers just as he had slipped in, hoping to get lost amongst a crowd that he had found not to exist. At least they hadn’t followed him, but they were certainly tightening their rounds by the building. 

Was there that much trouble that a nondescript man with dark hair was worth this effort? If they spotted Geralt and Ciri they were fucked. Geralt, even with darker hair, couldn’t hide his eyes. And his build made his stand out like a bull in tea shop.

If he didn’t know the man he would be suspicious!

Even with careful sips his mug was half full. Dammit, where was his lover!?

They needed to go, now.

He cast an eye around the room and found the woman still glaring at him, the two drunks both passed out on their tables.

Now he stood out. If he had brought his lute at least he could have looked like he was attempting to earn coin.

But if he had brought his lute, and they had seen him with Geralt, the soldiers would skewer them where they stood. Or, at least, die trying.

A harsh hold slipped over his shoulder, and he glanced out the window once more.

Had the soldiers caught them? Were they being manhandled now?

At least they hadn’t kicked Geralt in the stomach. Stomach injuries were the hardest to hide, and impossible to simply walk off. And he had forgotten to bring any potions with him.

The pain didn’t continue though, and he took another swig gratefully. Maybe someone was just asking him questions. Or perhaps he had forgotten his change and an overly enthusiastic merchant was eager to return it. 

But he wasn’t dead. And he wasn’t dying. And he wasn’t in any more pain.

The mug was nearly empty when the door opened, and Jaskier nearly popped out of his seat when he saw Geralt and Ciri. They glanced around, Geralt glaring at the two drunks, before Ciri smiled and waved at him.

“Uncle,” Ciri called happily, tugging at Geralt’s sleeve, “There he is father.”

Jaskier finishes his mug quickly and stands, trotting over to them and giving the tavern keeper a wave before grabbing Geralt’s arm carefully and glancing out the window.

“Brother,” Jaskier says a little too loudly, his eyes tracking the patrol as they passed.

They were watching the tavern.

They knew.

“You’re drunk, again,” Geralt growled, but Jaskier could _feel_ the intent.

Make a scene. Make a _normal_ scene. A man drinking away his sorrows in a tavern, in times like these, would blend in fantastically. Especially refugees that were quickly passing through the town.

“You’re too serious,” Jaskier smiled, patting Ciri on the head clumsily, “Mother would be so disappointed.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, grabbing Jaskier and hauling him to the door. 

The patrol passed, and Geralt hauled him out, quickly pulling the stumbling bard toward the southern road. Jaskier frowned, but continued to follow along. He trusted Geralt to keep them safe, no matter what.

“Yennefer will meet us at the horses at sundown,” Geralt hissed under his breath.

Jaskier tripped over his feet, getting hauled up roughly by Geralt. They had actually managed to find her!? His witcher truly was a miracle worker.

The patrol broke off and started following them.

Geralt picked up Ciri and nodded toward the forest. 

The message was clear: run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: *picks up Ciri and hurls her at the forest*
> 
> Ciri: Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!
> 
> Jaskier: *unimpressed*
> 
> And, uh, tags have been updated. We're coming up on the end. This fic decided to go a little... left on me. I think. Jaskier is a pain to work with at times.
> 
> Jaskier: I'm offended by that! You won't stop swinging swords near me!
> 
> Me: You won't stand still and let me chop at you!


	29. Chapter 29

Geralt swore as he felt the knife embed itself in his right shoulder and nearly dropped Ciri. Jaskier stumbled beside him and he nearly froze, but his bard waived him off.

Jaskier had had worse, they could deal with this later.

He kept the blade in the wound, swatting at Ciri as she reached toward it. A pulled weapon bled, and he needed his blood in him. He didn’t have any of his damn potions with him right now. He would need to swallow at least one or two when they got to the horses.

And shove a pain potion down Jaskier’s throat while they were at it. Even though the man was breathing evenly, Geralt could feel how thready those gasps were. His face was pale and sweat prickled across his forehead, threading black down across his chalky skin.

Fuck.

The soldiers called out to one another, and Geralt watched Jaskier stumble over a root and go sprawling.

He turned, on instinct, reaching down and swearing as he saw how close the soldiers were. 

Ciri began panicking, and Geralt slammed his hands down over his ears just in time as she opened her mouth and _screamed_.

The world rippled around them and the soldiers dropped to their knees, clutching at their heads. The trees wavered and three collapsed on top of the writhing men, ending their pain with a solid blow. The earth tore, and Geralt grabbed Jaskier and hauled him backward, behind their daughter, and watched a canyon begin to open between them and the town.

There would be no worry of soldiers following them from that direction.

Unfortunately, that also meant that they knew who they were, and there would be others, and soon. There was no hiding this or waving it away. They needed to be gone the instant Yennefer met them at the horses.

“Can you run,” Geralt asked, looking down at his wide eyed lover.

“Yeah,” Jaskier muttered, standing and grabbing at Ciri’s shoulder.

The little girl turned, tears pricking at her eyes, but nodded and dashed off in front of them. She stayed in sight, but her steps marked an easier trail for Jaskier to follow, and Geralt was grateful.

The knife rang out a pulse in his shoulder that he was sure was painful for Jaskier. He could see his steps faltering with every one of Geralt’s heartbeats.

It took nearly an hour of carefully rounding their trail through the woods, but they finally arrived at where the horses were quietly tied. They were all witcher bred and trained, and Geralt was never more grateful for that until now. They hadn’t attracted attention, and would be able to ride swiftly and safely in the night.

He glanced at where Jaskier was slumped against a tree, Ciri trying to hold a vial to his lips.

Geralt grabbed two of his own from Roach’s bags, and went to go sit next to Jaskier.

“You need the potion, Jask,” Geralt told him, nodding gratefully as Ciri handed it to him worriedly.

“It’s not that bad,” Jaskier tried to reassure him, “I’m just out of breath from running.”

“Your hand is shaking,” Geralt sighed, putting the vial up to Jaskier’s lips once more.

“I can’t,” Jaskier waved it off, “It might knock me out. You need me conscious. At least until tomorrow.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, “I’m going to pull this damn thing out and it’s going to bleed like a stuck pig. If you scream they’ll find us!”

Jaskier took one of the rolls of bandages from Geralt’s lap and bit down on it, hard, glaring at him. Geralt swallowed, and then nodded. The stubborn fool had put him between a rock and a hard place, and he couldn’t argue against him now.

He swallowed his two potions quickly and then reached behind and pulled out the knife.

Agony rippled through his muscles, and he watched Jaskier’s teeth clamp down and his eyes squeeze shut. Sweat was streaming off of him now, but there was nothing he could do but tend to his wound.

When he body was healed Jaskier would be fine again.

He wrapped the bandages around his shoulder, tightening them and tying them off roughly. He could feel the blood soaking through them and trickling down his back, but they would hold. At least until morning. By then, hopefully, the wound would be healed.

He looked at the knife, more a small sword, and grit his teeth.

He was lucky it hadn’t sunk deep, or he could have lost the use of his main fighting arm. He could easily switch to his left, witcher training demanded it, but it was unpleasant.

Ciri looked nervously at Jaskier before curling into his side, holding his hand. Jaskier smiled and nodded, finally pulling the bandages from his mouth and smiling weakly at Geralt.

“Not that bad,” his bard said, “You’ve had worse.”

Geralt winced, and nodded.

Jaskier shouldn’t know that. Jaskier shouldn’t need to know how bad it was now. Already he could feel the potions beginning to work, and hoped that was enough to soothe his lover’s pain. The sun was still looming above them in the sky, and it would be an uneasy day as they waited, hidden, for Yennefer.

“Get some sleep,” Geralt said, “We leave when Yennefer gets here.”

Jaskier nodded, and Geralt was glad when he slipped off quickly, Ciri soon following him.

It would not be a pleasant night for either of them.

* * *

Jaskier woke blearily, his shoulder still pounding with the slow rhythm of Geralt’s heartbeat. He was glad that he wasn’t expected to play the lute any time soon, he didn’t think he would be able to strum his fingers across its strings.

He looked up to see Geralt looming over him in the fading twilight, and turned to see Yennefer crouched next to him, her hand on his forehead.

“I’m fine,” he whispered, taking the water skin from Geralt gratefully and drinking greedily.

“You’re cool,” Yennefer sighed, looking up at Geralt with a glare.

“Not his fault,” Jaskier yawned, “Someone threw a sword at us.”

“And of course he had to catch it with his shoulder,” Yennefer groaned, pulling a potion from her satchel.

“Not until morning,” Jaskier argued, pushing it away as he stood.

He frowned, looking around carefully before he noticed Ciri already perched on her horse. It was just him slowing them down now.

“It’s a new brew,” Yennefer said, pushing it into his hands, “A little weaker, but you’ll stay alert, and shouldn’t get too tired.”

Jaskier smiled weakly and nodded, gulping it down gratefully. He wrinkled his nose at the taste of minty orange, vaguely unpleasant in every way possible, but felt it sinking into his skin already. The dull staccato of Geralt’s pulse quieted to a whisper, and he could move his shoulder again.

“Can you ride,” Geralt asked carefully, looking him over.

“Yes,” Jaskier smiled, pulling him into a kiss, “Can you?”

Geralt nodded, and motioned toward the horses.

Of course the witcher could ride, Jaskier snorted. The man could throw himself down a hill, land in a griffon nest, and still find a way to drag himself back onto Roach’s back.

“Ride with Ciri,” Geralt told Yennefer, “Catch her if she falls.”

Yennefer nodded, and Jaskier mounted his horse and stared back into the forest.

The trees loomed in the darkness around them, the stars hidden by the dense foliage, but Jaskier could hear every whisper of movement. It was just animals in the forest, he told himself, but he couldn’t be sure. He turned his horse toward Geralt and followed his lover into the heavy darkness.

It was just the darkness staring back them, he insisted as a chill went up his spine.

Roach sped her pace, and Jaskier was grateful for the cold wind that chased them through the night, wiping away the uneasy feeling that crawled over his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: *gets sworded*
> 
> Jaskier: Woohoo, it wasn't me for once! Oh, wait, ouch dammit!
> 
> And that's how you inflict pain on characters without stabbing them. And, for my next trick, I'll... dammit, my pineapple lemon curd didn't set. How am I supposed to surprise people with pineapple lemon macrons if the curd doesn't set!? *storms off to eat plain macrons*


	30. Chapter 30

The swift gallop through the night broke through the dawn and continued until nearly noon, Roach finally stopping near a stream and nearly throwing Geralt into it in exhaustion. Jaskier would have kissed the horse if he hadn’t been nearly too tried to do much more than slump off his own steed as well.

Geralt’s shoulder, he reminded himself. He needed to care for Geralt’s shoulder, because the other man was ignoring the pain that still throbbed there, and it was echoing through his own in pulsing beats that nearly made his head ache.

Ciri was asleep the instant Yennefer let her down, and Jaskier sighed gratefully. Being able to sleep the chase away, quietly, was exactly what they needed.

But he already knew that Geralt would be downing another one of his damn potions to stay awake through what little time they would stop to rest.

“Not yet,” Jaskier said, grabbing Geralt’s wrist before he could dig through his bag.

The man needed some honest sleep before he forced himself into the lingering pain the potion brought. 

“A few hours, please,” Jaskier said, “Me and Yennefer can take watch. You need your sleep, you can take the potion after.”

Geralt paused, and Jaskier could see the argument springing to life behind his eyes. His witcher would argue that he was the better fighter, he had the better senses, he could protect them better. All of them true. But he would also begin to slow, even with the potions, and leave them open to attack.

“They hurt when they burn through you,” Jaskier finally said.

Geralt’s lips tightened, and Jaskier smiled weakly. He hadn’t wanted to tell Geralt. Hadn’t wanted to force his hand like this, but it was true. If he downed those potions now, neither one of them would be getting any rest, and the journey would be all the poorer for it.

“Wake me if anything happens,” Geralt finally grunted, wrapping himself in his cloak and curling around Ciri to keep her warm.

Jaskier sighed, taking a few steps away, and nearly collapsing next to where Yennefer was sitting, staring out into the forest. They were being followed, they both knew it, but they didn’t know how far back the Nilfgaardian forces had fallen. A hard ride through a thick grown forest would force most horse riders to stop if they didn’t want to break their necks.

But, given how desperately they wanted Ciri, he doubted it had slowed them much. Maybe taken them to leading the horses by foot, but they would have started making up ground come the day.

“I didn’t abandon you,” Yennefer finally said, her voice a hushed whisper, nearly lost on the breeze.

“I know,” Jaskier smiled, leaning against her with a long yawn, “War makes things complicated. I wished you had written, though.”

“There was no safe way to get a message to you,” she said, “After we broke the forces at Sodden Hill, they started sending out small squads. Less a sword and more a handful of little, sharp needles. The mail systems aren’t safe, packs are searched. I can’t even portal without risk being tracked.”

“I was wondering about that,” Jaskier quipped, “It would have been more convenient than pressing the horses.”

“A lot of things would be,” Yennefer said darkly, and Jaskier didn’t dare press.

He had seen the countryside, gotten sick from the smell of burned flesh. He knew people had suffered, and he knew that Yennefer was just better at hiding her wounds. She wasn’t the cruel, callous sorceress some claimed she was.

But he also knew that the battlefield could build a stone wall around a person. He had worked for years pulling the one around Geralt down brick by brick, and even with a soul bond that had been a difficult chore.

“Does it hurt,” she asked, and Jaskier nodded.

It was fading, but the ride had done Geralt no favors, and had jarred the healing wound open again more than once. His lover needed rest, more than an hour or two of sleep, but it wasn’t possible. Not yet.

Maybe not for a long while.

“I don’t think it’s safe to head to Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier admitted.

“I thought the witcher fortress was defensible against an army,” Yen asked, honestly surprised.

Jaskier snorted at that. Of course she thought that, everyone did. 

“Not with one witcher and you. There aren’t enough witchers left to defend it from a pack of werewolves. It’s hidden, that’s why it’s not invaded. But they know Geralt has Ciri now, and they’ll know where he’ll run.”

Yennefer stared at him with open eyes, and Jaskier could almost read the thoughts passing through her head. They were the same ones he had been thinking during their wild escape: where would they be safe?

Because, even if Nilfgaard couldn’t find Kaer Morhen to invade, couldn’t even get an invasion force up that far north without notice, they could send a few scouting parties to guard the area and ambush them. All it would take was one man too many at this point, and Ciri would be captured.

“I dreamt about the coast, before he got scared and left back on the mountain,” Jaskier admitted, “A small cottage by the ocean, where no one would ever find us.”

“It would smell like fish and our clothes would be stiff with salt,” Yennefer noted.

But her voice wasn’t harsh, and Jaskier knew she was thinking over his words. A small cottage, well away from the roads, maybe butted against a cliff and protected against storms and besieging armies. It wouldn’t last, the world would crash into their hidden world soon enough, but it would give them time.

Time to lick their wounds, and rest, and plan. Maybe even long enough to have a few years to train Ciri. Enough time for the northern countries to band together and smash Nilfgaard back down, and free Cintra.

Though Jaskier doubted that Cintra would ever be anything but an annexed land at this point. But Ciri would be alive, and free, and that’s what mattered. She would have time to make her own decisions about her life. And, if she chose to try to raise an army to take back her kingdom, Jaskier would do all that he could to help. 

The lion cub of Cintra, daughter to a witcher. No army would stand a chance against her.

She just needed time to grow up and become who she was destined to be.

“Does he share that dream,” Yen asked, nodding at the sleeping witcher.

“He was going to find a place by the coast and leave us to look for you,” the bard admitted with a small shrug.

“I would have,” Yen agreed, “Safer without worrying about you two.”

“Ciri told him,” Jaskier admitted, and Yen sucked in her breath and swore.

She grabbed him by the cheeks and stared into his eyes, and Jaskier smiled and stared back. He knew what she saw when the color drained from her face and tears pricked in her eyes. His soul was a winding shadow, catching the glow of Geralt’s and Ciri’s, barely more than a humming, sunny yellow these days.

He wouldn’t have survived, waiting for Geralt by the coast. He doubted he would be able to survive very far from the other man ever again. He tried to stretch, tried to arch away from the strong golden plaits he had been tied to, but he couldn’t.

His soul was Geralt’s. His life was Geralt’s. 

His heart was Geralt’s, always.

Yennefer wrapped him in a hug, and Jaskier rubbed her back and hummed soothingly. 

“I’ll find something, I promise,” she whispered, and Jaskier just nodded.

They let the others sleep three more hours, until the sun began to dip, before preparing to set off into the forest once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I'm still suspicious.
> 
> Me: *looking through fridge* You'll be fine.
> 
> Jaskier: Every time you say that I-
> 
> Me: Where the fuck is the milk!? I can't make shiopan without the damn milk! *starts stabbing wildly*
> 
> Jaskier: Why must I always suffer!?
> 
> But, in all seriousness though, I'm out of milk. It's a haunting tragedy. And I really wanted shiopan with dinner tonight!


	31. Chapter 31

Geralt winced and rolled his shoulder carefully, trying to stretch the muscle without reopening the wound. He would have simply drunk a potion and relied on it to speed his healing even faster during the ride, but Jaskier’s words still echoed in his mind.

The potions hurt him. 

To Geralt, they had never been anything more than a buzzing nuisance. He had been taking them for nearly a century and grown used to whatever side effects they had. But they must be strong for Jaskier to comment on them. So he left them corked in his bag, and let his mutated healing abilities work their magic.

It was slower, but it was worth the peace of mind. 

It was all worth the peace of mind just to see Jaskier breathing a little more freely these days. To watch him laughing with Ciri as they munched happily on what little dried rations they had left. To know that he was still alive.

Yennefer snorted as she caught him staring, and Geralt just shrugged, wincing as he watched Jaskier rub at his shoulder. He needed to be more careful, he reminded himself. It wasn’t just he who hurt when he was injured.

“You look like one of those starry eyed lovers from his honeyed ballads,” Yennefer told him, holding out a small handful of nuts and a piece of jerky.

It wasn’t much, but it would be enough, for now. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being followed. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t smell them, but the sense was there.

And he had long learned to listen to his senses.

“He’d be insulted,” Geralt smiled, “He writes better than that.”

Yennefer nodded, chewing slowly on her own meager meal, and watched the two happily chatting in the waning shadows of the forest. Ciri had adapted to the odd naps they took to rest the horses, and had started fretting. It was good to give her, and Jaskier, time to rest and be a little human.

They had ridden the horses hard for three days, avoiding all signs of civilization, and still it wasn’t enough. Geralt was coming to fear that it would never be enough. That this creeping darkness would follow them all the way to the gates of Kaer Morhen and pull the ancient keep down around their heads.

“He still dreams of the sea,” she told him, and Geralt’s heart nearly skipped a beat.

The sea, and the freedom of the ocean. The freedom to sleep in soft beds and not worry about arrows flying through the air to steal their lives from them. He would dream of it too if he hadn’t abandoned such things long before his hair turned white and his eyes flashed gold.

“When this is over,” Geralt started with a sigh.

When this was over, and there was safety to be had again, he would throw his lover before him on Roach and they would ride to wherever his heart desired. They would see distant lands, and drink the sour wines that Jaskier sipped so thoughtfully at, and they would see the sea. Every sea they could find.

“I think it would be better now,” Yennefer told him.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed in a glare as the words shot an agony through his heart. Had something happened? Was Jaskier’s soul fading faster than the had thought? Was he dying?

“Nothing so horrid,” Yennefer reassured him, patting his cheek, “I think it would be safer to find someplace to hole up along the coast. Better defenses, and no one would know we were heading that way in the first place.”

“Jaskier was,” Geralt paused, “He was against that when I suggested it.”

“I was against you leaving us behind, not against the idea,” Jaskier said, leaning against Geralt and handing him a few nuts.

Geralt looked back at the tree Jaskier had been sitting under moments before and relaxed seeing Ciri curled up in her traveling cloak, fast asleep. At least one of them was getting solid sleep. He felt stretched, and he could tell from the bags under his lover’s eyes that he felt even worse.

Even Yennefer, with all her gravitas, looked strained around the edges. 

They couldn’t keep on like this. Soon or later something would break, and it was beginning to look more like sooner.

“The sea,” Geralt repeated slowly.

They wouldn’t be able to find one near a town, people would talk no matter what. They would have to find some place defensible. 

“I can risk a little scrying now,” Yennefer reassured him, “But not again once we’ve turned our path.”

“At least we can know we’re headed toward safety. With any luck, Nilfgaard will continue the pursuit north.”

Geralt sighed and rolled his eyes. Apparently he was nothing but baggage in this plan now.

“How long have you two been scheming this without me,” he finally asked, giving in.

It wasn’t a bad plan. He just would have preferred not to be caught unawares. He could have adjusted their route toward the coast days ago if he had known.

But, maybe, it was better this way. Nilfgaard could pass by them without noticing their departure from the old route. With careful covering of their steps, hopefully they could lose their pursuers in the night.

“The first day,” Jaskier answered honestly.

“Try not to have any more clever little plans without telling me, please,” Geralt sighed, pulling his lover in for a kiss.

He tasted of sour jerky and bitter herbs, but it was heaven after the past few days.

He wasn’t completely sold on the idea of hiding away against the ocean, the ocean unnerved him at times, but it was better than running north to disaster. And, if it got him a bed faster, he would be happier for it.

Yennefer snorted and left them to their rest.

* * *

Jaskier leaned against Yennefer, yawning, and watched as the sorceress muttered over a pool of still water in a dented bowl as the moon rose. It was the first time in what felt like years that they hadn’t been galloping through the night, and his body finally let the exhaustion crash into him.

He could barely keep his eyes open, but he knew he had to. They would be riding within the hour.

“I’ll wake you when she’s done,” Geralt offered with a whisper, but he just shook his head.

If he fell asleep now it would be hell to wake him. He could feel the ache building in his bones, and there would be no recovering from this until he could sprawl out and get a proper three days of rest.

Or more, if the best was soft and the room warm. And Geralt was wrapped around him.

“I’ll be fine,” Jaskier muttered, “Cant ride the damn horse asleep.”

Geralt chuckled at that, and nodded.

But his shoulder, stiff and unyielding, was so close, and it looked like the perfect pillow. Just a few minutes, he reassured himself. Not a proper sleep. Just rest his eyes for a little, until Yennefer found whatever it was she was looking for.

How hard would it be to find nothing around for kilometers along the coast?

Maybe she was looking for a specific kind of nothingness?

Maybe warm, fresh water. A bath would be nice. Jaskier yawned and closed his eyes, letting his head fall against Geralt’s shoulder and wincing.

He had nearly forgotten about the still healing injury. It wasn’t bad, but the dull ache had him opening his eyes and sitting up again, flexing his own shoulder carefully to stretch the muscle.

“I have it,” Yennefer said, looking up, exhausted.

Ciri would have to hold her up on the horse at this rate.

Geralt stood and stared into the water, but shook his head. Neither of them would be able to find this location without the sorceress’ help. It was the downside of scrying.

“Three days, maybe four,” she told him, biting back a yawn, “Will the horses last?”

“They’ll have to,” Geralt sighed, glancing at Jaskier.

Jaskier nodded, stretching as he got to his feet and going to wake Ciri.

The chase wasn’t done yet, but at least the end was in sight.

Hopefully, Jaskier thought, a safe end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone: to the sea!
> 
> Me: I have donuts!
> 
> Everyone: ... ?
> 
> Me: *munches on donuts* I do. They're cherry blossom flavored and everything!
> 
> This is how my mind works in life. Also, I check to make sure no one sitting around me has peed themselves. That's what happens when you work with two year olds, you're constantly checking for chair puddles.


	32. Chapter 32

Geralt cursed under his breath as the forest broke and scrub stretched out before in them. In the fading darkness it was a vast, inky nothingness, reflected in the quieting stars. It would be so easy to see someone half a days ride out in the flatness.

And that’s what made him pause.

The forest had offered a quiet support. They could be lost amongst the trees, and he had spent the last night making their tracks vanish. But here, there was nothing. He could not make them invisible. 

They could only ride, and hope they were not followed.

He drove Roach hard, glancing back to make sure the others were still behind him, and watched, horrified, as the shadows stretched and slipped from the forest as the first bashful beams of the sun broke around them.

Fuck.

“Jaskier, behind,” he roared, turning Roach swiftly and letting the others ride by, Yennefer settling by his side.

Yennefer stared grimly at the soldiers, their horses silent on the ground, and glanced over at Geralt. Geralt nodded grimly.

They had all known they had been followed, but he hadn’t thought it had been this close. They had been waiting for them to leave the safety of the forest. They had never had a chance of escape at all.

“Can you,” Geralt motioned with his hand, but Yennefer merely shook her head.

“Something is blocking me,” she snapped angrily, “They have bows.”

“Fuck,” Geralt said.

He had swords, and he had blades, but he didn’t have anything for distance. At this point, the best plan would be to keep running and hope the other horses fell to exhaustion first. But they had been riding hard all night, and he was doubtful that Roach and the others could go much farther without a rest.

The Nilfgaardians had the advantage, and they knew it.

“Ride hard,” Geralt hissed, “The horses can outrace them.”

Yennefer didn’t argue, just turning and motioning Jaskier to ride with Ciri, and not look back. Geralt was grateful that they had put the little girl with him this night, it was easier to defend one horse than two.

An arrow flew through the air moments later, and Yennefer was flung as her horse collapsed screaming. Geralt cursed, rearing Roach and pulling his sword.

Steel. They may have lingered in their shadows like haunted creatures of the night, but they were mere men. And he would cut them down like and soak the ground with their blood before he let them lay a hand on his lover and daughter.

“Geralt,” Jaskier cried, and Geralt refused to turn.

He refused to turn and look back. Ciri would be safe with Jaskier. He would hold the soldiers off, and then he would rejoin them. That was the only thing that mattered. He would live. Jaskier would live. Ciri would live.

They would all live.

“Fucking arrows,” Yennefer hissed, standing beside his horse and staring the charging soldiers down.

Then she put her hands to the earth and the world exploded around the Nilfgaardians. Geralt grinned as he watched the horses collapse, partially flayed, and then swung down as he caught the exhausted sorceress.

“Ride,” she panted.

“You ride, I’ll keep the back,” Geralt grunted, throwing the sorceress onto Roach’s back and slamming his hand against her flank.

Roach knew what to do.

He turned and roared, holding his sword and charged toward the remaining men. 

Fuck them for trying to take what was his.

* * *

Jaskier bit his lip and leaned down, trying to shield Ciri as they rode on through the fading night. Geralt had told him to ride, and he would _ride_.

He could feel his lover’s exhaustion, could feel the tension. Could feel the wound on his right shoulder burning as he held his sword and prepared for battle. Geralt was the most amazing man he had ever met, but even Jaskier doubted he could hold off the soldiers he had seen.

The horse stumbled and collapsed beneath him, and he gripped tight to Ciri and rolled. The girl whimpered, but kept her mouth clamped shut.

Jaskier was grateful when he opened his eyes and saw the sky looming above him. They were alive, but there was no way to escape. 

“Fuck,” Yennefer was at his side, and he waved her off, unwinding himself from around the little girl and climbing to his feet.

If Roach was the last horse left, they were properly fucked.

“Ciri, you need to ride,” Jaskier said, stretching his aching body. 

His pain was washing into Geralt’s, and he couldn’t tell them apart anymore. He watched as his silver haired lover swung his sword, and grunted as his shoulder exploded in agony. 

“Now, Ciri,” Jaskier growled, grabbing the girl.

He heard the arrows thudding in the ground around them, Roach rearing and panicking, and watched as roses bloomed across the dark fabric of her shirt. The little girl gasped, and stared at the arrow.

No.

No.

No!

Jaskier grabbed her, staring at the wound as his little girl mouthed words.

“We need to stop...” Yennefer’s words faded out as Jaskier grabbed the arrow.

He knew what needed to be done. Had known for as long as he could remember. His mother had held him in his arms on his first day of life and had told him.

He knew what his destiny was.

The golden strands shifted around him as he closed his eyes. The burning sun of Geralt’s life, and the playful sunshine that had been tied there by destiny. The sunshine was fading, setting now, and it brought tears to his eyes to watch.

He couldn’t let that happen. The world needed that beautiful, happy sun. Needed to know that it was there, to trust in her to lead them. To defeat the darkness that had crawled from the trees and lingered in their nightmares.

And he saw the brittle braid of straw, faint and gray, tied between the two of them.

He was so pale compared to the other two, a faded memory in their shadows. Had he ever been anything more?

No. 

He was a paper doll, bound the day he was born to a witcher. Destiny needed Geralt to live to save the world. But maybe destiny had gotten it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t his life that Geralt needed.

It was hers. Destiny needed Ciri to live so Geralt could help save the world.

He knew they could do it. They could do anything. 

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Take a breath in, and give it right back.

Take a breath in-

Jaskier took a hold of his soul bond and _pulled_. He felt it stretch, and then collapse against Ciri’s. He felt the beauty of her life wrap around him, and he smiled.

“Geralt,” he whispered, giving his last breath, his gift, right back.

He loved his witcher. Had loved him with an ache that no one could understand. Had loved him his entire life, and fallen in love with him the moment they had met. He could offer him nothing now but this, this tiny gift. His final gift. His only gift.

He could give him the life he had dreamed they could have together. A family. Happiness. 

Jaskier let himself collapse and swim into the sunshine, the world fading into gold around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
> ...  
> I'm sorry.


	33. Chapter 33

The sun beat down as Geralt groaned, throwing his arm over his face and trying to turn away from the sky. His entire body felt like he had been at the tender mercies of Roach all night, and Jaskier was going to kill him for it. He tried to roll over and frowned as his body protested and his armor shifted.

His armor.

He wasn’t hungover.

His head throbbed as he blinked and grabbed for his sword, ignoring his muscles as they screamed. The Nilfgaardian soldiers lay sprawled around him, groaning. He could figure out what the fuck Yennefer had done after they were dead.

He pulled himself to his feet and limped over to the nearest man, stabbing him in the throat and looking toward the others. There were only two left alive, the others missing limbs or had spilled enough blood to have died.

Geralt spat on the ground as he finished killing the last man, running his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disgust. The very air tasted bitter around him, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get his eyes to focus properly.

The entire world seemed _dim_. A vibrancy that had been there before was lacking, washed away. He must have hit his head when whatever had happened happened. The Nilfgaardians hadn’t come close enough to touch him. He had only crossed steel with one of them before the world exploded.

He shrugged his shoulders, groaning as the wound in his right shoulder tore.

Jaskier was going to have his head for this. Hopefully Yennefer had kept a few potions spare somewhere, his bard was going to need one.

He rubbed at his chest, trying to figure out what else was aching as he scanned the edge of the broken forest. The timberline was broken and mauled, the trees ripped and flung, blocking the path behind him.

If there were men left in the forest waiting to follow them, they were gone now. Either retreated to safety or long since dead. Nothing could survive a force that turned mature trees to kindling like that.

He paused, taking a breath in. He felt hollow somehow. Lonely. Something was missing.

He patted down his armor with a frown, but it was all in place. Some damaged, some needing repair, but there.

His medallion lay still against his chest.

What had happened? Yennefer’s spell earlier had been devastating, but not like this. 

He turned and growled as he saw Roach in the distance. He had told them to run, dammit!

Unless, he paused, his hand tightening on his sword. Unless they had been forced to stop because whatever happened to him happened to Jaskier. His heart skipped a beat when he imagined the pain his lover must be in right now.

If he had even woken up yet at all. 

He pressed his muscles into a run as he tried to ignore the limp he had acquired. He could apologize later, he needed to see how bad it was now. Make sure they were alright. Jaskier would understand, he knew what had happened.

Jaskier would be alright, he reassured himself. He merely felt the pain, he didn’t have the injuries.

He could see Yennefer wrapped around something. Someone? Had they been hurt? There had been arrows. 

Had Ciri screamed? It would explain the suddenness of the attack. Even his medallion would have been unable to warn him it was coming until after her power was upon them. He had seen what small screams could do, if she had gotten hurt she wouldn’t have been able to control her powers.

The world could shatter apart with her whimpers. If she had opened her mouth and _screamed_ , it could be the only thing that would level the forest. He had to have hit his head when her power had leveled the area. It’s the only reason why everything echoed _lonely_ in his mind.

He could only see Yennefer, and Ciri in her arms. Where was Jaskier? Why wasn’t he helping?

Geralt was panting now, urging his body forward. He could apologize for the pain later, he needed to make sure everyone was okay. He needed to shake this growing dread that was clawing its way through his heart.

He could see Jaskier.

His bard was sleeping, he told himself as he stumbled to a stop, dropping to his knees next to Jaskier. 

Just sleeping.

The pain had taken its toll on him and washed him away into unconsciousness. Yennefer’s potions were always so strong, he must have already drunk one, after Geralt had been knocked out. They had been riding hard for days now, his lover was exhausted and his body had finally dragged him under into a sweet, much needed rest.

His hand was shaking as he swept bangs from Jaskier’s face. The other man hated it when his bangs were in his eyes. Hated it when they got in the way of him seeing the world.

It was just cold, he told himself. And he couldn’t hear his lover’s heart beat over Ciri’s muffled sobs. But it was there.

It had to be there.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasped, his hand stroking the side of Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier didn’t move.

“Please, you need to wake up,” Geralt begged, shaking his shoulder gently.

Jaskier’s body flopped loosely under his touch, and Geralt’s heart froze. He was cold. He was so very, very cold. Cold under the merciless heat of the burning sun.

He looked up, wide eyed, begging Yennefer for an explanation.

Geralt swallowed as he saw the bloodstains down the front of Ciri’s shirt, a dry, crusty brown he had grown to know by sight very young. He could smell the blood, hours old. Too much blood in too important of a place to be survivable.

No, he shook his head. Jaskier was tied to _him_! He couldn’t have! There was no way.

“Please,” Geralt’s breath heaved as he clutched at Jaskier, pulling him close, “Please, please, please.”

But the body remained limp beneath his touch, and he could smell the foul stench of lingering death when he buried his nose in his hair. Gone were the fancy oils that he toyed with so joyfully, gone was the exuberance he breathed, even asleep.

The one he loved was gone.

Geralt pulled Jaskier against his chest, shaking in agony as he _howled_. 

Geralt had sworn to keep him safe. To protect him. To keep him _alive_.

“I’m sorry,” Ciri hiccuped, stumbling over and collapsing against his side, burying her face in his shoulder.

He shook his head. No. She hadn’t done this. She was their child surprise, their _child_. She didn’t do this.

“There was an arrow,” she wiped at her face, clinging close, “And then, and then, and then his...”

Ciri started crying, and Geralt didn’t know what to do. His lover was dead in his arms, and his child was crying next to him.

Jaskier would have known what to do. But Jaskier was gone. Jaskier had brought her back. Had kept her alive. Had left him alone with her, trusting him to protect her.

“Geralt,” Yennefer’s voice was soft, and he looked up, begging her to fix this.

She had magic. She could make things right.

“Please,” Geralt whispered, holding Jaskier out toward her.

But the sorceress shook her head, taking the body and laying it back on the ground.

Something in Geralt shattered at the sight. Jaskier looked so relaxed, laying in the trampled grass. Serene. Asleep. Eternal.

He had never seen the ocean, Geralt reminded himself. Jaskier had wanted to go to the ocean, to be there, as a family. To enjoy life, in safety, where no one could harm them. Beyond the grasp of the shadows that had reached out and stolen his lover from him.

Geralt’s arms trembled as he reached out and took his bard softly in his arms.

He couldn’t give him the happiness that he had wanted in life, but he could give him the ocean. He could give him the promise that he would keep their child safe.

* * *

There was no grave. Geralt had never been able to stand the thought of him buried away from the sun and the wind, trapped in a prison below the ground. His bard had run and won his freedom, had loved to travel and see the world.

He had built a pyre and burned him on a cliff by the sea, letting the wind take him and flutter him to distant lands. Places that Geralt would have shown him if they had had more time.

He stared out across the ocean, watching the summer storm hanging heavy in the sky, looming toward the little house that Yennefer had carved out of rock into the cliff for them. Safe, she had told him.

Ciri settled next to him, leaning against him and he pulled her close.

The world was colder without Jaskier. An emptiness rang through his very soul that would never be filled again. But he had to keep moving forward.

Jaskier had given his gift to him. Had given him Ciri, to keep and protect.

And he couldn’t disappoint his bard.

“Yennefer made stew,” Ciri said, watching the lightening streak through the ominous clouds.

Geralt snorted at that.

Yennefer was a talented sorceress, but a cook she was not.

“How many rocks did she put in the pot,” Geralt asked with a grin, pulling Ciri in tight and spinning her around in his arms.

Ciri shrieked in laughter, and Geralt smiled. He could see Jaskier’s gold shining in her. Jaskier’s last gift, happiness, echoed in her lively footsteps.

He grinned as he chased her back toward the home he had made, continuing to put one foot in front of the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so my friends we come to the end of our journey together. We've laughed, we've sighed, we've cried, we've had a pineapple lemon curd fail and be turned into ice cream topping. It's been a wonderful time.
> 
> I hope you've all enjoyed it as much as I have (50k words is a book, I've written a book of fanfiction!), and I've loved all the kudos and comments you've shared with me. I wish you all the best and I remind you to please, wash your hands. I mean, you should always be washing your hands anyway, but really, wash your hands and be careful out there. 
> 
> Jaskier: and quit killing me!
> 
> Me: ... no one said that. At all.
> 
> Jaskier: *glares and gnaws on cookies angrily*


End file.
